The fortune of the Rougons : a realistic novel

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THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

A REALISTIC NOVEL.

ZOLA'S POWERFUL REALISTIC NOVELS.

TRANSLATED WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT FROM THE LATEST FRENCH EDITIONS.

' In Crown 8vo, jmce 6s. each.

" After reading Zola's novels it seems as if in all others, even in the truest, there were
a veil between the reader and the things described, and there is present to our minds the
same difference as exists between the representation of human faces on canvas and the
reflection of the same faces in a mirror. It is liiie finding truth for the first time."—
Signor de Andcis.

HOW JOLLY LIFE IS!

Illustrated with Eight Page Engravings.

A LOVE EPISODE.

Illustrated with Eight Page Engravings.

ABBE MOUKET'S TRANSGKESSION.

Illustrated with Eight Page Engraviyigs.

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

Illustrated with Eight Page Engravings.

HIS MASTERPIECE?

(L'CEUVRE.)
With a Portrait of the Author^ etched by Bocourt.

THE LADIES' PARADISE.

Illustrated loith Eight Page Engravings.

THERESE RAQUm.

Illustrated with Sixteen Page Engravings hy Castelli.

THE RUSH FOR THE SPOIL.

(LA CURtE)

Illustrated with Twelve Page Engravings.

PIPING HOT!

( POT-BOUILLE.)

Illustrated with Sixteen Page Engravings^ hy French Artists.

NANA.

Illustrated with Twenty-four Tinted Page Engravings^ hy French Artists.

THE "ASSOMMOIR;"

(The Prelude to " Nana.")
Illustrated with Sixteen Tinted Page Engravings, hy French Artists.

GERMINAL; OR, MASTER AND MAN.

Illustrated with Sixteen Page Engravings, from designs by J. Fe'iat.

MEETING OF REACTIONARIES IN THE ROUGONS' YELLOW DRAWING-ROOM

p. 82.

THE

FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

THE COURTSHIP OF SILvi;RE AND MIETTE.

By EMILE ZOLA.

p. 205.

THE

FORTUNE OP THE ROUGONS:

A REALISTIC NOVEL.

BY

EMILE ZOLA.

TRANSLATED AYITHOUT ABRIDGMENT FROM THE 21iH FRENCH EDITION.

Illustratfb toii^ €x^\t ^^i Cn^rabings.

LONDON:

ViZETELLY ^ Co., 42 CATHERINE StREET, StRAND.

1SS6.

GLASGOW:

C. L. WRIGUT,

PKINTEK.

■*^

Coo. /^

PEEFACE.

,^^

i

I WISH to show how a family, a small group of persons,
comports itself amidst the surroundings in which it is
placed, expanding and giving birth to ten, twenty
individuals who appear at first sight extremely dis-
similar, but who, on examination, Avill be found to be
intimately^ connected with each other. Heredity, the
same as gravity, is governed by certain laws.

By resolving the double question of temperament
and surroundings, I shall endeavour to discover and
follow out the thread which conducts mathematically
from one individual to another. And when I have
gathered up all the threads, when I have the Avhole
social group in my hands, I shall exhibit the several
members of it at work as actois in an epoch of history ;
I shall portray them in all the complex diversities of
their efforts ; and, at the same time, I shall analyse the
sum of each individual's volition, and the general
tendency of the whole.*

s, * The present is the first volume of the '* Rougon-Macquart"
^series, "the Natural and Social History of a Family under the
^"Second Empire." A list is appended of all the published volumes
^ of the series in the order in which they were originally issued.

'^ La Fortune des Rougons.
La Curee.

^ Le Ventre de Paris.

cLa, Conquete de Plassans.
■^La Faute de I'Abbe' Mouret.

>Son Excellence Eugene RoLgon.
. ^L'Assommoir.

Vne Page d'Amour.

Nana.

Pot-Bouille.

Au Bonheur des Dames.

La Joie de Vivre.

Germinal.

L'CEuvre.

4,

vi. TREFACE.

The characteristic of the Rougon-^Iacquart family,
the group which 1 propose to study, is their unbridled
passions, that great revolutionising element of our age,
inciting to excessive self-indulgence. Physiologically
speaking, these appetites are the gradual outcome of
certain nervous and sanguineous modifications which
manifest themselves in a race of beings, as a consequence
of some previous organic lesion, and which determine
the sentiments, the desires, the passions of each in-
dividual of the race according to his surroundings ; in
short, all those natural and instinctive manifestations of
human nature, which, in their results, assume the con-
ventional names of virtues and vices. Historically
speaking, these appetites originate with the people,
whence they spread to contemporary society, aftecting
all stages under the influence of that impulse, essentially
modern, which is communicated to the lower classes
during the progress of their social development, and
they thus tell the story of the Second Empire, by the
help of their individual dramas, from the perfidy of the
Coup d'fitat to the treason of Sedan.

I had been collecting documents for this vast work
for about three years, and the present volume was,
indeed, already written, when the fall of the Bonapartes —
which was essential to complete my picture, and which,
with a kind of fatality, always turned up at the end of
the drama — came to my aid, though I had not dared to
expect it so near, to supply the terrible and necessary
issue of my work. The latter is now complete ; it
moves in a finished circle ; it becomes the picture of a
defunct reign, of a strange epoch of folly and shame.

This work, which will comprise several episodes,
embodies in my mind the natural and social history of a
family under the Second Empire. And the first episode,
" The Fortune of the Rougons," may, for scientific pur-
poses, be very aptly entitled " The Origin."

EMn.E Zola.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE PREFIXED TO THE FIRST
EDITION OF "UNE PAGE D'AMOUR."

I HAVE determined on prefixing to this volume the
Genealogical Tree of the Kougon-Macquart family, and
I have been prompted to this decision by two reasons.

Firstly : The requests to have an adequate sketch of
this Tree have been very numerous, in so far as it
would allow my readers to thread their way through a
maze of details concerning the many members of the
family of which I have constituted myself the historian.

My second reason is somewhat more complicated.
It is a regret to me that I did not give this Genealogical
Tree to the world in the first volume of the series, as its
pubHcation would have permitted my plan being grasped
at a glance. Were I to withhold it longer, I should be
accused in the end of having furbished it up after the
event. It is time enough to put on record the fact that
it was conceived as it stands in 1868, before I had
written a single line, and that it was clearly pictured
forth in the first of these fictions, published under the
title of " La Fortune des Rougons," in which I could not
well depict the original representatives of the family,
till I had settled, before everything, its branches and off-
shoots. The difficulty was all the greater as the idiosyn-
cracies of four generations were to be contrasted, and my
characters were to enact their parts within a period of
only eighteen years.

The publication of this Tree will be my answer to
such as charge me with a persistent leaning to undue
realism and vicious detail. Since 1868 I have been em-
bodying the conception I then outlined, and in this
Genealogical Tree I have laid down the broad lines from
which I have swerved neither to right nor to left. To
it I must yield my undivided attention ; it is at once my
incentive and my guide. Its results are not attained
fortuitously ; it contains what I have schemed out and
what I am busily realising.

It now remains for me to say that circumstances only

viii. INTRODUCTOKY NOTE.

have forced me to publish the detailed Family Tree
with " Une Page d'Amom'," a work which is essentially
domestic, and in which I have made no attempt at
elaborate portraiture. It should properly have been
prefixed to the last volume of the series. Eight have ap-
peared, twelve are still on the stocks, and this fcict suffi-
ciently explains my impatience. Some day hereafter
it will serve as frontispiece to the last of the volumes,
where it will have an intimate connection with the pro-
gress of the story. In my mind it has taken shape as
embodying the observations of Pascal Rougon, a physi-
cian, and a member of the family, who in the closing
fiction will sum up the scientific results of the complete
work. Doctor Pascal will analyse and elucidate the whole,
fining in blanks with exact details which I have hitherto
necessarily omitted, lest the succeeding volumes should
lose in beauty and interest. The natural and social
characteristics of each member of the family will be
definitely pictured, and the uncouthness of technical
phrases will be smoothed away by explanatory details.
My perfected scheme can be made intelligible to my
readers from other sources of information. I cannot
give here a list of all the physiological works Avhich I
have consulted, but would only mention " L'Heredite
Naturelle," by Dr. Lucas, in wdiich the curious may find
information regarding the results obtained by physio-
logical science, allowing me to build up the Rougon-
Macquart Family Tree.

I have now merely the wish to prove that my novels
published during the last nine years are but inter-
dependent units in a complete whole, the plan of which
was decided on before putting pen to paper, and that
consequently, while judging of the merits of each in-
dividual story, my readers should pay some regard to
its being in harmony with the perfect scheme. Bearing
this in mind, they will be enabled to pass on my work a
somewhat juster and more liberal opinion than might
otherwise be the case.

E:\iiLE Zola.

THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS.

-♦♦♦-

CHAPTER I.

On quitting' Plassans by the Porte de Rome, situated at the
southern part of the town, you will find, on the right of the
road to Nice, and a little way past the first houses of the
Faubourg-, a plot of land known in that part of the country as
the Aire Saint-Mittre.

The Aire Saint-Mittre is an oblong- piece of g-round on
a level with the footpath of the adjacent road, from which it
is separated by a strip of trodden grass. A narrow lane, having
no thoroughfare, borders it on the right with a row of hovels ;
while on the left, and at the further end, it is closed in by two
bits of wall overgrown with moss, and above which can be
seen the top branches of the mulberry-trees of the Jas-Meiffren
— an extensive property — the entrance to which lies lower
down. Enclosed thus on three sides, the Aire Saint-Mittre is
like a place which leads nowhere, and is used solely as a pro-
menade.

In former times a cemetery existed there under the pro-
tection of Saint-Mittre, a Provencal saint, who was greatly
honoured in the country. In 1851 the old people of Plassans
still remembered having seen the walls of the cemetery stand-
ing, although it had been closed for several years. The earth,
which had been glutted with corpses for more than a century,
literally perspired with death ; and it had been necessary to
open a new burial-ground at the other end of the town. The
old cemetery, long abandoned, had been gradually purified by
the dark, thick-set vegetation which used to sprout over it
every spring. This rich soil, in which the gravediggers could
no longer delve without turning up some human remains,
possessed a most formidable fertility. The tall weeds, which
overtopped the walls after the May rains and the June sun-

A

10 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

shine, were plainly visible from the hig-h road ; while inside,
the place presented the appearance of a deep sombre green sea
studded with large blossoms of singular brilliancy. Under the
shade of the close-set stalks the very sap seemed, as it were,
to boil and ooze out from the damp soil.

Among the curiosities of this field were some large pear-
trees, with twisted boughs forming huge knots ; none of the
housewives of Plassans cared to pluck the large fruit which
grew upon them, and which the townspeople used to speak of
with grimaces of disgust. No such delicacy, however, re-
strained the young urchins of the Faubourg, who were in the
habit of assembling at twilight in bands, and climbing the walls
to steal the pears, even before they were ripe.

The trees and vegetation, in their vigorous growth, had
rapidly assimilated the decomposing matter in the old cemetery
of Saint-Mittre ; while the malaria rising from the human re-
mains had been greedily absorbed by the flowers and fruits ;
so that eventually the only odour one could detect, in passing
by this accumulation of putrefaction, was that arising from the
strong smell of the wild gillyflowers. It was merely a ques-
tion of a few summers.

At about this time the townspeople determined to utilise
this common property, which had long been useless. The
walls bordering the roadway and the blind-alley were pulled
down ; the weeds and the pear-trees were uprooted ; the
sepulchral remains were removed; the ground was dug
several yards deep, and the bones, which the earth was willing
to surrender, were heaped up in a corner. For nearly a month
the youngsters, who lamented the loss of the pear-trees, played
at bowls with the skulls, and one night some practical jokers
suspended femurs and tibias to all the bell-handles of the town.
This scandal, which is still remembered at Plassans, did not
cease until the authorities decided to have the heaps of bones
shot into a hole which had been dug in the new cemetery. All
work, however, is usually carried out with a discreet dilatori-
ness in the country, and during an entire week the inhabi-
tants saw, at distant intervals, a solitary cart occupied in re-
moving these human remains, just as one would cart away
rubbish. The worst of it was, the cart had to traverse the
whole length of Plassans, and, in consequence of the bad condi-
tion of the roads, every jolt of the vehicle scattered fragments
of bones ^nd handfuls of rich mould. There was not the least "

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 11

semblance of a religious ceremony, nothing but a slow, brutal
cartage. Never before was a town so disgusted.

For several years the old cemetery remained an object of
terror. Although it was situated in the main thoroughfare and
was open to all comers, it was left quite deserted, a prey to
another vegetarian raid. The authorities of the town, who had
doubtless counted on selling it and seeing houses built upon it,
had evidently been unable to find a purchaser. The recollec-
tion of the heap of bones, and the solitary cart jolting through
the streets with the oppressive persistence of an incubus,
doubtless made the people recoil from the spot; or perhaps this
indifference should rather be ascribed to that indolence, to
that repugnance to pulling down and setting up again which
is so characteristic of country people. As a matter of fact,
the authorities still retained possession of this plot of ground,
and finally altogether forgot their original desire to dispose of
it. They did not even erect a fence round it, but left it open
to all comers. As time rolled on, the people grew accustomed
to this barren spot ; they used to sit on the grass, walk about,
or congregate in groups. When the grass had got worn away
and the trodden soil had become grey and hard, the old
cemetery resembled a badly-levelled public promenade. As if
the more effectually to efface every objectionable record,
the inhabitants were slowly and unwittingly led to change
the very appellation of the place, contenting themselves with the
name of the saint only, which was likewise used to designate
the blind alley at one corner of the field. Thus there v/as the
Aire Saint-Mittre and the Impasse Saint-Mittre.

These facts date, however, from some considerable time
back. For more than thirty years past, the Aire Saint-Mittre
has presented a strange picture. The townspeople, much too
inert and indifferent to derive any advantage from it, had let it,
for a trifling consideration, to some wheelwrights of the Fau-
bourg, who had turned it into a woodyard. At the present day
it is still encumbered with enormous pieces of timber thirty or
forty feet long, lying here and there in piles, and looking like
immense overturned columns. These parallel piles of timber,
reaching from one end of the yard to the other, are a continual
source of delight to the youngsters. In some places the
ground is covered with the fallen wood, forming a kind of
uneven flooring over which it is impossible to walk, except by
balancing one's self in a marvellous way. Troops of children

12 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. .

amuse themselves all day long with this exercise. You will
see them jumping" over the great planks, walking along the
narrow ends one after another, and crawling astride them:
various games which generally terminate in blows and bellow-
ings. Sometimes a dozen of them will sit, closely packed one
against the other, on the thin end of a pole raised a few feet
above the ground, balancing themselves for hours together.
The Aire Saint-Mittre thus serves as a recreation ground for
all the little ragamufSns of the Faubourg, who, for more than a
quarter of a century, have been in the habit of resorting there
to wear out the seats of their breeches.

The strange associations of the place are enhanced by the
circumstance that the wandering gipsies, by a sort of traditional
custom, always select this waste land for their encampments.
Whenever any of these nomadic establishments, which gene-
rally consist of an entire tribe, arrive at Plassans, they take up
their quarters in the Aire Saint-Mittre. The place is conse-
quently never empty. There is always some strange-looking
band there, some troop of wild men and horribly dried-up
women, among whom may be seen groups of healthy-looking
children rolling about on the grass. These people live in the
open air, devoid of all sense of shame, regardless of everybody,
boiling their pots, eating nameless things, displaying their
tattered garments, sleeping, fighting, kissing, and reeking
with filth and misery.

This field, formerly deathlike and deserted, save for the
buzzing of the hornets around the rich blossoms in the calm
sunshine, has thus become a very rowdy spot, resounding with
the noisy quarrels of the gipsies and the shrill cries of the
urchins of the Faubourg. In one corner, there is a primitive
saw-mill for cutting the timber, the great noise of which forms
a dull, continuous bass accompaniment to the sharp-sounding
voices. The wood is placed on two high tressels, and a couple
of sawyers, one of whom stands aloft on the piece of timber
itself, and the other underneath, blinded by the falling saw-
dust, work a large saw to and fro, like wire-pulled puppets,
for hours together, with the rigid regularity of a machine.
The wood sawn by them is stacked, plank by plank, along
the wall at the end, in piles six or eight feet high, which
often remain there several seasons, overgrown by weeds
close to the ground, and constitute one of the charms
of the Aire Saint-Mittre. In between these stacks are

ths foetune of the eougons. 13

mysterious, retired little paths leading to the broader
alley between the timber and the wall, a wild strip of verdure
revealing only small patches of sky. The vigorous vegetation
and the shuddering, deathlike stillness of the old cemetery still
invade this alley, with its moss-covered walls and velvety turf.
One can feel the soft warm vapours of death's voluptuousness
wafted from the old graves l^^ing under the sun. In the whole
country round Plassans there is not a more entrancing spot,
breathing, as it does, the very spirit of languor, solitude, and
tenderness. It is a most delightful place for love-making.
When the cemetery was being cleared, the bones must have
been heaped up in this corner ; for it frequently happens that
one's foot comes across some fragments of a skull lying con-
cealed in the damp turf.

Nobody, however, thinks of the bodies that have slept
under the earth. In the day-time the children play hide-and-
seek behind the piles of wood. The green alley is not fre-
quented at all ; the only thing to be seen is the wood^^ard
crowded with timber and grey with dust. In the morning
and afternoon, when the sun is warm, the whole place is astir.
Above all the turmoil, above the ragamuffins playing among
the timber, and the gipsies kindling the fire under their caul-
drons, the figure of the sawyer mounted on his beam stands
out in bold relief, moving to and fro with the precision of
clockwork, as if to regulate the busy activity that has invaded
the former home of death. Only the old people, as they sit on
the planks basking in the setting sun, speak at times among
themselves of the bones which they had seen conveyed through
the streets of Plassans by the legendary cart.

At nightfall the Aire Saint-Mittre becomes quite deserted,
and assumes a hollow look, like a great black hole. The
dying embers of the gipsies' fires are no longer visible, although
at times shadows can be distinguished gliding noiselessly into
the dense mass of darkness. The place is especially miser-
able in winter time.

One Sunday evening, at about seven o'clock, a 3'oung
man stepped lightly from the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and,
passing close by the walls, disappeared among the timber
in the woodyard. It was in the early part of December,
1851, when the weather was dr}^ and cold. The full
moon shone with that sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter
moons. The woodyard did not present that deep, sinister

14 THE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

appearance which it wears on rainy nights ; illuminated with
sheets of white light, and wrapped in a deep, chill silence, it
wore a soft, melancholy aspect.

The young man paused a few seconds on the edge of the
yard and gazed mistrustfully in front of him. He carried a
long gun, the butt-end of which was hidden under his coat,
while the barrel, pointing towards the ground, glittered in the
moonlight. Tightening his grasp of the weapon, he attentively
examined the square shadows cast by the piles of timber.
The ground looked like a chess-board, on which the black and
white squares were clearly defined by the light and shade.
The sawyer's tressels stood out in the centre of the plot of land
on a strip of bare grey ground, forming a strange-looking,
elongated picture, resembling an immense geometrical figure
traced on paper. The rest of the yard, with the great beams
lying about, formed a huge couch on which the light reposed,
sparsely streaked here and there with slender black lines from
the shadows which ran along the different pieces of timber.
This sea of poles, lying motionless in the chill silence of the
wintry moon, stiffened, as it were, with sleep and cold,
recalled the corpses of the old, cemetery. The young man
cast a rapid glance round the empty space ; there was not a
creature, not a sound, no danger of being seen or heard. The
black patches at the further end caused him some anxiet}^ at
first, but after a brief examination he plucked up courage and
hurriedly crossed the woodyard.

As soon as he felt himself under cover he slackened his
pace. He was then in the green alley which runs along the
wall behind the piles of planks. Here his very footsteps be-
came inaudible ; the frozen grass scarcely crackled under his
tread. This spot must have possessed some charm for him, for
he seemed to experience a feeling of comfort, apprehending no
danger, and coming there solely for the pleasure it afforded
him. He now no longer concealed his gun. The alley, as it
extended itself, looked like a dark trench, while the moon,
gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber, streaked
the grass with patches of light. The whole place was wrapped
in one soft, sad slumber. No words can describe the calm
peacefulness of this pathway. The j^oung man traversed its
entire length, and stopped at the end where the walls of the
Jas-Meiffren form an angle. Here he listened attentively for
any sound that might be coming from the adjoining estate.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 15

At last, hearing- notbiDg", he stooped down, and removing" one
of the planks, hid his gun amongst the timber.

An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing
of the burial ground lay in the corner, resting on its side and
forming a kind of slightly-sloping raised seat. The rain had
worn its edges, and the moss was slowly eating into it.
Nevertheless, the following fragment of an epitaph, engraved on
that portion of the surface which was sinking in the ground, was
still distinguishable by the moonlight. ^^Here lieth . . . Marie
. . . died . . ." The finger of time had effaced the
rest.

When he had concealed his gun, the young man again
listened attentively, and hearing nothing, resolved to jump up
on the stone. The wall being rather low, he was able to rest
his elbows on the top of it. He did not perceive anything
excepting a flood of light beyond the row of mulberr3^-trees
along the w^all. The flat, barren grounds of the Jas-Meiffren
spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached
linen ; a hundred yards off the mansion and outhouses formed
a still whiter patch. The young man stood gazing anxiously
in that direction when, suddenly, one of the clocks of the town
struck seven with slow, solemn strokes. He counted the
strokes, and then jumped down, apparently surprised and
relieved.

He seated himself on the tombstone, as though he was pre-
pared to wait some considerable time. He remained there for
about half-an-hour, motionless and deep in thought, and
apparently quite unconscious of the cold, while his eyes gazed
fixedly at a dense mass of shadow. He had seated himself in
a dark corner ; but the rising moon gradually gained upon him,
and soon shone full over his head.

He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, whose fine mouth,
and soft, delicate skin betrayed his youthfulness. He must
have been about seventeen ^-ears of age, and possessed a
characteristic kind of beauty.

His thin, long face looked like the work of a skilful sculptor ;
the high forehead, prominently arched e^'ebrows, aquiline nose
and large flat chin, the cheeks with protruding tapering cheek-
bones, gave a singularly bold relief to his head. Such a face
would, with advancing age, develop pronounced bony features,
as attenuated as those of a knight errant. But at this stage of
puberty the angularity of bis face, which was lightly covered

16 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

with a soft down, was relieved by a certain cbarming
effeminacy and childlike indistinctness of outline. His soft
black eyes, still g-lowing- with youth, infused a delicacy into
his vigorous-looking countenance. The young fellow would
probably not have fascinated most women, as he was not what
one would call handsome ; but his features, as a whole, were
full of such ardent and sympathetic life, such enthusiastic and
vigorous beauty, that they must have attracted the gaze
and engaged the thoughts of the girls of his country — those
sunburnt girls of the South — as he passed their doors in
the sultry July evenings.

He remained seated upon the tomb-stone, wrapped in
thought, and apparentl}^ quite unconscious of the moonlight
which now fell upon his chest and legs. He was of middle
stature, rather thickset, with over-developed arms and a
labourer's hands, already hardened by toil ; his feet, encased
in heavy laced boots, looked strong and square-toed. His
general appearance, more particularly the coarseness of his
limbs, clearly betrayed his lowly origin. There was, however,
something in him, in his upright neck, in the thoughtful
glances of his ej'es, which seemed to indicate an inner revolt
against the brutifying manual labour which was beginning to
bend him to the ground. His was, no doubt, an intelligent
nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of race and class ;
one of those delicate refined spirits imbedded in a rough
exterior, from which they in vain struggle to emancipate
themselves. Thus, in spite of his vigour, he seemed timid
and restless, feeling a kind of unconscious shame at his imper-
fection. An honest lad, whose very ignorance generated
enthusiasm, whose manly heart was impelled by a childish
intellect, displaying alike the submissiveness of a woman and
the courage of a hero. On the evening in question, he was
dressed in a coat and trousers of greenish corduroy. A soft
felt hat, placed lightly on the back of his head, cast a shadow
over his face.

As the neighbouring clock struck the half hour, he
started from his reverie with a bound. Perceiving that the
moon was shining full upon him, he gazed anxiously in front.
Then he abruptly dived back into the shadow, but he was
unable to recover the thread of his thoughts. He now perceived
that his hands and feet were very cold, and, showing signs of
impatience, he jumped up on the stone again, to look into the

THE FORTUNE OP THE ROUGONS. 17

Jas-Meiffren still empty and silent. Finally, at a loss how
to kill time, he jumped down, fetched his gun from the pile
of planks where he had concealed it, and amused himself by
working- the trigger. His weapon was a long, heavy carbine,
which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness
of the butt-end and the heavy breech of the barrel showed it to
be an old flintlock which had been altered to take percussion
caps by some local gunsmith. Such firearms are frequently
found in farm-houses, hung against the wall over the chimney-
piece. The young man caressed his gun with affection ; twenty
times or more, he pulled the trigger, thrust his little finger into
the barrel, and examined the butt-end attentively. Led on
gradually by a youthful enthusiasm, combined with a little
childish frolicsomeness, he ended by pointing his weapon with-
out aiming at anything, like a recruit going through his
drill.

It was now very nearly eight o'clock, and he had been
holding his gun levelled for over a minute, when a low,
panting voice, light as a breeze, came from the direction of the
Jas-Meiffren.

" Are you there, Silvere ? " the voice asked.

Silvere dropped his gun and bounded on to the tombstone.

" Yes, yes," he replied, also in a hushed voice. " Wait, I'll
help you."

Before he could stretch out his arms the head of a young
girl appeared above the wall. The child, with singular agility,
had assisted herself by the aid of the trunk of a mulberry-tree,
climbing up like a kitten. The ease and certainty with which
she moved showed that she was familiar with this strange spot.
In another moment she was seated on the top of the wall.
Silvere, taking her in his arms, lifted her, not without a
struggle on her part, on to the seat.

"Let go," she laughingly cried; "let go, I can get down
alone very well."

" Have you been waiting for me long ? " she asked, when
she was seated on the stone. " I've been running, and am
quite out of breath."

Silvere made no repl3^ He seemed in no laughing humour,
as he gazed sorrowfully into the girl's face.

" I wanted to see you, Miette," he said, as he seated him-
self beside her. " I should have waited all night for you. I
am going away early to-morrow morning."

18 THE FORTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

Miette had just caught sight of the gun lying on the grass,
and, with an air of thoughtfulness, murmured :

" Ah ! so it's decided then ; there's your gun ! "

" Yes," rephed Silvere, after a brief silence, his voice still
faltering, " it's my gun. I thought it best to remove
it from the house to-night ; to-morrow morning aunt Dide
might have seen me take it, and have felt uneasy about it. I
am going to hide it, and shall come and fetch it just before
leaving."

Seeing that Miette could not remove her eyes from the
weapon which he had so foolishly left on the ground, he
jumped up and hid it again among the planks of wood.

'' We learnt this morning," he said, as he resumed his seat,
" that the insurgents of La Palud and Saint Martin-de-Vauls
are on the march, and passed the night yesterday at Alboise.
We have decided to join them. Some of the workmen of
Plassans have already left the town this afternoon : those who
still remain will rejoin their brothers to-morrow."

He pronounced the word brothers with a youthful emphasis.

" The struggle is becoming inevitable," he added ; " but, at
any rate, we have right on our side and we shall triumph."

Miette listened to Silvere, her eyes gazing fixedly in front
of her, without looking at anything.

" Very well," she said, when he had finished speaking.

After a brief silence she continued :

"You had warned me, yet I still hoped. However, it is
decided."

Neither of them knew what else to say. The green alle}'-
in the deserted corner of the woodyard resumed its melan-
choly stillness, as the moon chased the shadows of the piles of
timber over the grass. The figures of the two young people on
the tombstone remained still and motionless in the pale light.
Silvere had passed his arm round Miette's waist, and she was
reclining gently against his shoulder. They did not kiss, but
pressed close to each other with a love that was full of the
innocent tenderness of fraternal affection.

Miette was enveloped in a long brown hooded cloak reach-
ing- down to her feet, and leaving only her head and hands
visible. Among the women of the lower classes in Provence
— the peasants and the labourers — these ample cloaks, which
are there called pelisses, and which have probably been worn
for ages, are still to be met with. Miette had thrown her

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 19

hood back on arriving*. Living in a hot climate, she was not
accustomed to wear a cap in the open air, and her bare head
stood out in bold relief against the moonlit wall. Although a
mere child, she was already ripening into womanhood. She
had arrived at that adorable indistinct stage of development
where the frolicsome girl gives place to the grown-up young
woman. There is in that stage a delicacy of the shooting bud,
a hesitating conformation, which lends an exquisite charm to
young girls. The full voluptuous outlines of puberty are
already indicated in the innocent meagreness of childhood ; the
woman shoots forth, preserving, with the unconscious avowal
of her sex, the maidenly modesty and embarrassment of the
young girl. This period is very unpropitious for some girls,
who grow up coarse and ugly, with sickly, sallow complexions
like early plants ; but for girls who, like Miette, are healthy
and live in the open air, it is especially favourable, and, once
passed, cannot be recalled.

Miette was thirteen jea,vs of age, and although strong and
vigorous did not look older, owing to the bright childish smile
which lit up her countenance. In consequence of the climate
and the rude life which she led, she was rapidly ripening into
womanhood, and was even now marriageable. She was nearly
as tall as Silvere, plump and teeming with life. Like her lover,
she possessed an uncommon kind of beauty. She would not
have been considered ugly, although she might have appeared
peculiar to most handsome young people. Her rich black hair,
which rose shaggy and erect above her forehead, fell behind
in long tresses like surging billows, and flowed over her head
and neck like seething, bubbling waters. It was very thick,
and caused her considerable inconvenience, as she did not
know how to arrange it. She twisted it as tight as possible,
so as to occupy little room, into several plaits as thick as a
child's fist, and tied them into a tuft at the back of her head.
As she had but little time to devote to her toilette, this immense
chignon, hastily contrived without the aid of a mirror, often
assumed, under her hands, a powerful grace and beaut}^.
Seeing her head covered with this sort of natural casque,
with this mass of frizzed hair which hung about her neck and
temples like an animal's mane, one could readily comprehend
why she was in the habit of going bareheaded, heedless of the
rain and frost.

The dark outlines traced by the hair gave the form and

20 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

colour of a golden lunar crescent to her face. Her big" eyes
starting out of her head, her short turned-up nose with dilated
nostrils, and her thick ruddy lips, when regarded apart, would
have looked very ugly ; viewed, however, in relation to the ex-
quisitely rounded contour and the vivacity of her countenance,
these details formed an ensemble of strange, ravishing beauty.
When Miette laughed, throwing her head back and gently
reclining it on her right shoulder, she resembled the ancient
Bacchante, her throat swollen with sonorous gaiety, her cheeks
rounded like those of a child, her teeth large and white, her
twists of woolly hair tossed about by every outburst of merri-
ment, and forming', as it were, a crown of vine branches. The
maiden youthfulness of the girl of thirteen summers was dis-
tinguishable in the innocence of her broad womanly grins, and
especially in the child-like delicacy of her chin and the soft
transparency of her temples. Miette's face, tanned by the
sun, reflected, in certain lights, an amber colour. A soft black
down already shaded her upper lip. Toil was commencing to
disfigure her small hands, which, if left idle, would have become
charmingly plump and delicate.

Miette and Silvere remained silent for a long time. They
were reading their own troubled thoughts, and, as they
pondered, ever and anon, upon the unknown terrors of the
morrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their two
hearts were communing with each other, feeling the uselessness
and bitterness of verbal plaint. The young girl, however,
could no longer contain herself, and, choking with emotion,
gave expression, in one phrase, to their mutual misgivings.

" You will come back again, won't you ? " she whispered,
as she hung on Silvere's neck.

Silvere made no reply, but, half-suffocated, and fearing lest
he should give way, as Miette had done, he kissed her on the
^ cheek like a brother, at a loss for any other consolation to offer.
Then disengaging themselves they again lapsed into silence.

After a moment Miette shuddered. She was no longer
leaning against Silvere's shoulder, and felt herself becoming
icy cold. She would not have shuddered thus had she been
in this deserted alley the previous evening, seated on this
tombstone, where for several seasons they had carried on their
flirtations amid the silence of the old corpses.

" I'm very cold," she said, as she pulled her hood over her
Jiead.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. ^1

" Would you like to get up and walk ? " the young* man
asked her. " It's not yet nine o'clock ; we can take a stroll
along" the main road."

Miette reflected that she would probably not have the
pleasure of another meeting* for a long* time — another of those
evening" chats, the joy of which served to sustain her through-
out the day.

" Yes, let us walk a little," she quickly replied. ^' Let us
go as far as the mill. I could pass the whole night like this
if you wanted to."

They rose from the tombstone, and were soon hidden in
the shadows of the piles of planks. Here Miette took off her
cloak, which was quilted in the form of little lozenges with
a red twill lining, and threw its large warm skirt over Silvere's
shoulders, so as to envelop him entirely and draw him close
to her under the same garment. They passed their arms round
each other's waists, locking themselves together in a close
embrace. When they were thus joined, as it were, into a
single being, buried in the folds of the pelisse which concealed
their human shape, they began to walk slowly in the direction
of the high road, passing fearlessly through the vacant parts
of the woodyard lighted up by the moon. Miette had thrown
the cloak over Silvere, who had submitted to the operation
quite naturally, as though it had performed a similar service
for them every evening.

The road to Nice, along both sides of which the houses of
the Faubourg are built, was, in the year 1851, lined with elm
trees a hundred years old, grand old gigantic ruins, still full
of vigour, which the fastidious town council have replaced,
some years since, by small plane-trees. While Silvere and
Miette were under the trees, the immense boughs of which
cast shadows on the footpath in the moonlight, they met two
or three black groups moving along silently close to the houses.
Like them, they were amorous couples, closely wrapped in
cloaks, and carrying on their flirtations in the dark.

This stj^le of promenading has been instituted by young
lovers in the Southern towns. Those boys and girls among
the people, who will marry each other sooner or later, but who
do not dislike a kiss a little in advance, have no resort where
they can carry on their flirtations at their ease, without ex-
posing themselves to scandal and gossip. Although their
parents allow them full liberty, they would soon be the talk of

B

22 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

the town if they were to hire an apartment or meet each other
alone ; moreover, they have no time in the evenings to resort
to the soHtude of the country. They have, therefore, adopted
the middle course, frequenting* the suburbs, the vacant plots,
the footpaths of the high roads, in fact all those places where
there are few passers-by and numerous shady nooks. And as
the inhabitants are all known to each other, they take the
further precaution to conceal their identity by wrapping them-
selves in these long cloaks, large enough to cover a whole
family. The parents tolerate these proceedings carried on in
the dark ; the stiff propriety of the country does not appear to
entertain any apprehension ; it is understood that the lovers
shall not stand still or sit down in any of these retired nooks,
and this suffices to calm all chaste susceptibilities. It is
thought that they can hardly do more than kiss each other
while they are walking; sometimes, however, a girl is led
astray — the lovers have sat down.

Nothing is more charming than these lovers' rambles, which
give free scope to the Southerner's suasive fanciful imagination.
It is a veritable masquerade, fertile in innocent enjoyments
within the reach of the most humble. The girl clasps her sweet-
heart to her bosom, enveloping him in her warm cloak, just as
young ladies sometimes conceal their lovers under couches or in
cupboards. This forbidden fruit has a particularly sweet flavour,
eaten, as it is, in the open air, along the high roads, amidst
persons who are quite indifferent to what is going on. The
certainty of being able to kiss each other with impunity before
all the world, to remain publicly in each other's embrace for
evenings together, without running the danger of being recog-
nised or pointed out, must add an exquisite ravishing charm to
these flirtations. All the couples, looking like brown masses,
resemble each other. The belated pedestrian, seeing these
groups gliding about, regards what is going on as nothing
more than a little innocent flirtation of no significance whatso-
ever. The lovers know they are safely concealed ; they con-
verse in undertones and make themselves quite at home ; most
frequently they do not converse at all but walk along at ran-
dom, enjoying the charm of being enveloped in the same wrap
and combining pleasure with propriety. The climate alone is
to blame for having in the first instance invited these 3'oung
lovers to retire to the secluded spots in the suburbs. On fine
summer nights one cannot walk round Plassans without coming

THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 23

across a hooded couple ; certain places, the Aire Saint-Mittre for
instance, are full of these black-cloaked parties gliding softly
past each other amid the warm night breezes ; one would
imagine they were guests invited to some mj^sterious ball given
by the stars to the lovers among the poorer classes. When it is
very warm, and the young girls do not wear cloaks, they turn
up their over-skirts. In the winter, the most passionate lovers
even make light of the frosts ; and as they descended the Nice
road, Miette and Silvere thought but little of the chill Decem-
ber night.

They passed along the slumbering Faubourg without ex-
changing a word, resuming with mute delight their warm
embrace. Their hearts were heavy ; the joy which they felt
in pressing close to each other was not unmixed with sad
thoughts of an approaching farewell, and it seemed to them
that they could never exhaust the mingled sweetness and bit-
terness of this silence which slowly lulled their steps. The
houses were now becoming more scarce as they reached the
end of the Faubourg. There stands the entrance to the
Jas-Meiffren, an iron gate fixed to two strong pillars; a
long row of mulberry trees is visible through the bars.
Silvere and Miette instinctively cast a glance inside as they
passed.

From the Jas-Meiffren the main road descends with a gentle
slope to the bottom of a valley, which serves as the bed of a
little rivulet, the Viorne, a brook in summer, but a torrent
in winter. The two rows of elms were still in existence at
this time, and lent to the high road the appearance of a mag-
nificent avenue intersecting the hill, which was planted with
corn and slender vines, with a broad band of gigantic trees.
On this December night, under the clear cold moonlight, the
newly-ploughed fields, as they extended along both sides of the
road, resembled vast beds of greyish wadding which would
have deadened all the noises in the air. The dull murmur of the
Viorne in the distance alone sent a thrill through the immense
silence of the surrounding country.

When the young people had commenced to descend the
avenue, Miette's thoughts reverted to the Jas-Meiffren which
they had just left behind.

" I had great difficulty in getting away this evening," she
said. " My uncle wouldn't let me go. He shut himself up in
a cellar, where, I believe, he was hiding his money, for he

24 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

seemed very frightened this morning at the events that are
taking place.''

She clasped Silvere gently to her side.

" Don't be frightened," he replied. " The time will come
when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole day
long. You must not fret."

"Oh," replied the young girl, shaking her head, "yon
are very hopeful. Sometimes I feel very sad. It isn't the
hard work which grieves me ; on the contrary, I am often very
glad of my uncle's severity, and the tasks he sets me. He was
quite right to make me a peasant ; I should perhaps have
turned out bad ; for, do you know, Silvere, there are moments
when I fancy myself under a curse. I feel, then, that I should
like to be dead. I thhik of you know whom."

As she pronounced these last words, her voice broke into a
sob. Silvere interrupted her somewhat harshly.

"Be quiet!" he said. "You promised not to think about
it. It's no crime of j^ours. We love each other very much,
don't we? " he added in a gentler tone. " When we're married
you'll have no more unpleasant hours."

"I know," murmured Miette. "You are so kind, you
sustain me. But what am I to do ? I cannot shake off these
fears and inward revolts which I sometimes feel. I think, at
times, that I have been wronged, and should like to do some-
thing wicked. You see I pour forth my heart to you. When-
ever my father's name is thrown in my face, I feel a burning
indignation. When the urchins cry at me, as I pass, ' Eh !
Chantegreil,' I lose all control of myself, and feel that I should
like to lay hold of Ihem and whip them."

After a savage silence, she resumed :

"As for you, you're a man; you're going to fight; you're
very lucky."

Silvere had let her continue speaking. After a few steps,
he observed, sorrowfully :

" You are wrong, Miette, to be angry. You shouldn't rebel
against justice. As far as I'm concerned, I'm going to fight
in defence of our common rights, not to gratify any personal
animosity."

" All the same," the young girl continued, " I should like
to be a man to handle a gun. I feel that it would do me
good."

She perceived, from Silvere's silence, that she had displeased

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 25

him. Her ardour collapsed and she whispered in a supplicating
tone :

" You are not angry with me, are you ? It's your depar-
ture which grieves me and awakens such ideas. I know very
well 3''ou are right — that I ought to be humble."

She commenced to cr}^, and Silvere, moved by her tears,
grasped her hands and imprinted a kiss upon them.

" See now, how you pass from anger to tears like a child,"
he said lovingly. " You must be reasonable. I'm not scolding
you. I only want to see you happier, and that depends chiefly
upon yourself."

The remembrance of this drama, wliich Miette had so sadly
evoked, cast a temporary gloom over the lovers. They con-
tinued their walk with bowed heads and troubled thoughts.

" Do you think I'm much happier than you ? " Silvere asked,
resuming the conversation, after a momentary silence, in spite
of himself. '' If my grandmother had not taken care of me
and educated me, what would have become of me ? With the
exception of my uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself,
and who taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations
seem to fear that I should contaminate them by coming near
them."

He was now speaking with considerable animation, and
suddenly stopped, holding Miette in the middle of the road.

" God is my witness," he continued, "that I do not envy
nor hate anybody. But if we triumph, I shall have to speak
my mind to those fine gentlemen. Uncle Antoine knows all
about this matter. You'll see when we return.. We shall all
live free and happy."

Miette pulled him gently, and they resumed their walk.

" You dearly love the Republic ? " the girl asked, essaying
a joke. " Do you love me as much ? "

Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness.
She was thinking, perhaps, how easily Silvere abandoned her
to go and scour the country. The lad gravely replied :

" You are my wife, to whom I have given my heart. I
love the Republic on account of my affection for you. When
w6 are married we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to
procure a part of this happiness that I'm going away from you
to-morrow morning. Would you, then, persuade me to remain
at home ? "

*' Oh, no!" cried the young girl eagerly, ^' A man should

26 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

be brave ; courage is noble ! You must forgive my jealousy.
I should like to be as strong as you. You would love me all
the more, wouldn't you ? "

After a moment's silence, she added, with charming vivacity
and ingenuousness :

" Ah ! how delighted I shall be to kiss you oil your return !"

This outburst of a loving and courageous heart deeply
affected Silvere. He clasped Miette in his arms and imprinted
several kisses on her cheek, and, as she laughingly struggled
to get free, her eyes were bathed in tears of emotion.

Around the lovers the country still slumbered, in the
vast stillness of the cold. They were now half-way down
the hill. On the top of a hillock, to the left, stood the ruins
of a windmill, blanched by the moon ; the tower, which had
fallen in on one side, alone remained. This was the limit which
the young people had assigned to their walk. They had come
straight from the Faubourg without casting a single glance at
the fields they passed between. When he had kissed Miette's
cheeks, Silvere raised his head and observed the mill.

"What a long walk we've had!" he exclaimed. "See —
here is the mill. It must be nearly half -past nine. We must
go home."

Miette made a wry face.

" Let us walk a httle further," she implored ; " only a few
steps, just as far as the little cross road, no farther."

Silvere smiled, as he again took her round the waist. They
continued to descend the hill, no longer fearing the glances of
the curious, as they had not met a living soul after passing the
last houses. They nevertheless remained enveloped in the long
pelisse, which constituted, as it were, a natural nest for their
love-making. It had concealed them for so many delightful
evenings ! Walking side by side, they would have felt small
and isolated in the vast country around. This blending
together into one form, however, emboldened them — made
them feel bigger. Through the folds of the pelisse they gazed
upon the fields stretching on the two sides of the road, without
experiencing that overwhelming sensation with which vast
indifferent horizons usually oppress the human affections. It
seemed to them as though they had brought their house with
them ; they felt a pleasure in viewing the country around, as
one would from a window, delighting in the calm solitude,
the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of nature

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 27

through the dark wintry shroud, fascinated with the whole
valley, in fact, though the charm was not sufficiently powerful
lO efface the pleasure of their mutual embrace.

Their colloquy had ceased ; they spoke no more about other
people, nor even about themselves. They were absorbed by
the present, pressing each other's hands, uttering exclamations
at the sight of a landscape, speaking at rare intervals, and
with little attention to each other, as though overwhelmed by
the warmth of their bodies. Silvere forgot his republican
enthusiasm ; Miette no longer reflected that her lover would
be leaving her in an hour, for a long time, perhaps for ever.
The transports of their affection lulled them into a feeling of
security, as on other days, when no farewell marred the tran-
quillity of their meetings.

They continued walking, and soon reached the little cross-
road mentioned by Miette — a bit of a lane which led through
the fields to a village on the banks of the Viorne. But they
passed on, pretending not to notice this path, where they had
agreed to stop. A few minutes after, however, Silvere whis-
pered :

" It must be very late ; you will get tired."

"No; I assure you I'm not at all tired," the young girl
replied ; *' I could walk several leagues like this easily."
Then, in a tone of persuasion, she added :

" Let us walk down as far as the meadows of Sainte-Claire.
There we will really stop and turn back."

Silvere, who with open eyes was lulled into a gentle slumber
by the young girl's rhythmic gait, made no objection, and they
returned to their state of rapture. They proceeded rather
more slowly, fearing the moment when they would have to
retrace their steps. Whilst they walked onward, they felt as
though they were advancing to the eternity of their mutual
embrace ; the return meant a separation, a bitter leave-taking.

The declivity of the road was gradually becoming less
steep. At the bottom of the valley there are meadows ex-
tending as far as the Viorne, which runs at the other end, beside
a range of low hills. These meadows, separated from the high
road by thick-set hedges, are the meadows of Sainte-Claire.

" Bah ! " exclaimed Silvere, this time, as he caught sight of
the first patches of grass ; " we'll go as far as the bridge."

Miette burst out laughing, clasping the young man round
the neck with exuberant affection.

28 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those
days two elms forming the end of the long avenue, two cdlossal
trees larger than any of the others. The treeless fields stretch
out from the high road, like a large band of green wool, as far
as the willows and birches of the river. The distance from
the last elms to the bridge was scarcely three hundred yards.
The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to traverse this
space. At last,- in spite of their slow gait, they reached the
bridge, where they stopped.

The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite
slope of the valley. They could only see a small portion of it,
however, as it takes a sudden turn about half-a-mile from the
bridge, and loses itself among the wooded hills. On looking
round they caught sight of the other end of the road, that
which they had just come along, which leads in a direct line
from Plassans to the Yiorne. In the beautiful winter moon-
light it looked like a long silver ribbon, skirted with two
sombre borders by the rows of elms. On the right and left
the tilled lands of the hills formed enormous grey, vague seas,
intersected by this ribbon, by this roadway white with frost,
and emitting a metallic lustre. Up above, on a level with the
horizon, the light shone from several v^indows in the Faubourg,
resembling glowing sparks. By degrees Miette and Silvere
had left it fully a league behind They gazed at the interven-
ing road as though struck with admiration at the vast amphi-
theatre, which seemed to rise to the firmament, and over which
flowed bluish streams of light, as over the stages of a
gigantic waterfall. This strange scenery, this colossal apothe-
osis stood out amidst the still and deathly silence which
pervaded it. Nothing could have been of more sovereign
grandeur.

The young people, who had just been leaning against a
parapet of the bridge, were now gazing beneath them. The
Viorne, swollen by the rains, flowed on at their feet with a
dull, continuous sound. Up the river and below, amidst the
darkness which filled the hollows, they perceived the black
forms of the trees growing on the banks ; here and there
glided the moonbeams, casting a trail of molten tin, as it were,
on the water, which glittered and danced about like a ray of light
on the scales of some live animal. This glimmer flowed \vith
mysterious charm along the greyish course of the torrent,
among the vague shadows of the foliage. It might have been

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 29

an enchanted valley, some strange retreat inhabited by a
curious race of people composed of lights and shades.

This part of the river was familiar to the lovers ; .they had
often gone there in the warm July nights, when they passed
hours, hidden among the clusters of willows on the right
bank, at the spot where the meadows of Sainte-Claire spread
their verdant tapestry up to the waterside. They remembered
every bend of the stream, every stone on which they had to
step in crossing the Viorne, when it was as narrow as a brook,
every little grassy spot where they had indulged in their
dreams of love. Miette, therefore, contemplated from the
bridge the right bank of the torrent with a longing gaze.

" If it were warmer," she sighed, " we might go down
and rest there awhile before going back up the hill."

Then, after a short silence, during which she kept her eyes
fixed on the banks of the Viorne, she resumed :

" Look down there, Silvere, at that black mass in front of
the dam. Do you remember ? That's the brushwood where
we sat last Corpus Christi day."

" Yes, so it is," replied Silvere, softly.

This was the place where they had ventured to kiss each
other. The remembrance of it just awakened by the young girl
caused them both a delightful sensation, an emotion in which
the joys of the day gone by mingled with the hopes of the
morrow. They saw, as though by a flash of lightning, the
delightful evenings they had passed together, especially that
evening of Corpus Christi day, with its most trifling details, the
warm sky, the cool willows of the Viorne, and their own
loving talk. "Whilst they joyously recalled these past in-
cidents, they pictured to themselves the unknown future, their
dreams realised, and they marching through life arm in
arm — as they had just been doing on the highway — warmly
wrapped in the same cloak. They yielded to this transport,
and smiled in each other's eyes, lost amidst the silent brilliancy
of the scene.

Suddenly Silvere raised his head, and, throwing off the
cloak, listened attentively to something. Miette, in her sur-
prise, imitated him, not knowing why he started so abruptly
from her.

Confused sounds were issuing from behind the hills, in the
midst of which the Nice road wends its way. They sounded
like the distant jolts of a procession of carts, but were rendered

30 THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS.

more indistinct by the roaring* of the Viorne. Gradually the
sounds became stronger, resembling* the stamping of an army
on the march. Amidst this continuous and increasing* roll the
uproar of a crowd became distinguishable, like strange
rhythmical blasts of a hurricane ; one could have fancied they
were the thunderclaps of a storm which was rapidly approach-
ing and already causing a disturbance in the slumbering
atmosphere. Silvere listened attentively, unable to catch the
voice of the tempest, the distinct perception of which was
obstructed by the hills. Suddenly a dark mass appeared at
the turn of the road, and the "Marseillaise," sung with vin-
dictive fury, thundered forth.

" Ah, there they are ! " cried Silvere, with a burst of joyous
enthusiasm.

He commenced to run up the hill, dragging Miette with
him. On the left side of the road lay a slope planted with
evergreen oaks, up which he clambered with the young girl,
to avoid being carried away by the surging, howling multitude.

When they had reached the top of the slope, in the shadow
of the brushwood, the young girl, rather pale, gazed sorrow-
fully at those men, whose distant songs had sufficed to steal
Silvere from her embrace. It seemed as if the whole band had
interposed itself between them. They were so happy a few
minutes before, locked in each other's arms, alone and lost
amidst the overwhelming silence and discreet brilliancy of the
moon ! And now Silvere's eyes, as he looked around, ignoring
even her presence, were riveted on those strangers whom he
called his brothers.

The band descended with superb, irresistible stride. The
irruption of those thousands of men upon the deathly cold
silence of the horizon produced a scene of grandeur not un-
mixed with terror. The highway became a torrent, rolling
with living waves which seemed inexhaustible. At the bend
in the road appeared a constant succession of dark masses,
whose songs swelled more and more the loud roar of this
human tempest. "When the last battalion had made its appear-
ance, the shouts became deafening. The "Marseillaise" filled
the heavens as if blown through enormous trumpets by giant
mouths, which transmitted it, vibrating, into every corner of
the valley. The slumbering country awoke with a bound —
quivering throughout like a drum beaten by drumsticks, and
echoing from its very bowels the formidable sounds of the

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 31

national song". The singing was no longer confined to the
men. The distant rocks, the tilled lands, the meadows, the
clusters of trees, every bit of brushwood, all seemed to emit
human voices. The large amphitheatre, extending from the
river to Plassans, the gigantic cascade over which the bluish
moonlight flowed, seemed to be filled with countless numbers
of invisible people cheering the insurgents; and in the deep
pools of the Viorne, along the waters streaked by the mysteri-
ous rays of molten tin, every dark nook and corner seemed to
conceal human beings, who took up each refrain with ever-
increasing ardour. In the commotion of the air and earth
the country cried for vengeance and liberty. So long as the
little army was descending the slope, the roar of the populace
burst forth in sonorous waves mingled with abrupt shouts, and
shook the very stones in the roadway.

Silvere, livid with emotion, listened and looked on. The
insurgents who led the van, drawing behind them this swarm-
ing, roaring trail, vastly indistinct in the darkness, rapidly
approached the bridge.

"I thought," murmured Miette, ''that you would not have
to pass through Plassans ? "

" They must have altered their plan of operations," Silvere
replied ; " we were, in fact, to have marched to the chief town
by the Toulon road, passing to the left of Plassans and Orcheres.
They must have left Alboise this afternoon and advanced in the
evening to Les Tulettes."

The head of the column had already arrived in front of the
young people. The little army was more orderly than one
would have expected from a band of undisciplined men. The
contingents from each town and borough formed separate
battalions, marching a few feet distant from each other. These
battalions were apparently under the orders of certain chiefs.
The pace at which they were at the moment descending the
declivity converted them into a compact solid mass of invincible
strength. There were probably about three thousand persons,
all united and carried away by the same storm of indignation.
The strange details of this scene were not discernible amidst
the shadows projected along the highway by the lofty slope.
Five or six feet from the brushwood, however, where Miette
and Silvere were sheltered, the left hand slope sank slightly to
give passage to a little pathway which ran alongside of the
Viorne; and the moon, gliding along this gap, striped the

32 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

road with a broad luminous band. On the first insurgents
traversing this beam, they suddenly found themselves lit up
with a brilliancy, the sharp whiteness of which revealed, with
singular distinctness, the slightest ruggedness of visage or
costume. As the insurgents defiled, the young people watched
them emerge, fiercely and without cessation, from the darkness.
^ At the first sight of the men passing through the light
Miette instinctively clung to Silvere, although she knew she
was safe even from their gaze. She passed her arm round
his neck, reclining her head against his shoulder. She stood
upright, her pale face enveloped by the hood of the pelisse,
her eyes gazing fixedly at this square patch of light as it was
rapidly traversed by these strange faces, transfigured by en-
thusiasm, their dark open mouths filled with the vindictive
cry of the " Marseillaise." Silvere, whom she felt trembling
at her side, bent towards her ear and named the various con-
tingents as they passed.

The column marched along, eight abreast. In front there
were some big, square-headed fellows, who seemed to possess
the Herculean strength and naive confidence of giants. They
were blind, intrepid defenders of the Republic. They carried
large axes on their shoulders, the edges of which, freshly
sharpened, glittered in the moonlight.

" The woodcutters of the forests of the Seille," said Silvere.
*' They have been formed into a corps of sappers. At a signal
from their chiefs these men would march straight to Paris,
battering down the gates of the towns with their axes, as they
cut down the old cork-trees on the mountain."

The 3^oung man spoke with pride of the heavy fists of his
brethren. He continued, as he watched a band of labourers
and rough-bearded men, tanned by the sun, coming along
behind the wood-cutters :

" The contingent from La Palud. That is the borough
which first broke out into rebellion. The men in blouses are
labourers who cut up the cork-trees ; the others in the velvet
jackets must be huntsmen and colliers, living in the passes of
the Seille. The huntsmen knew your father, Miette. They
have some good firearms, which they handle skilfully. Ah!
if all were armed in the same manner ! We are short of
muskets. See, the labourers have only got cudgels."

Miette, speechless, looked on and listened. As Silvere
spoke to her of her father the blood rushed quickly to her

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 33

cheeks. Her face burning-, she scrutinised the huntsmen with
an air of mingled indignation and sympathy. From this
moment she seemed to become animated by ' the feverish
emotions which the insurgents' songs awakened.

The column, which had just recommenced the " Marseil-
laise," continued to march down as though lashed by the sharp
blasts of the Mistral. The men of La Palud were followed by
another troop of workmen, among whom a goodly number of
gentlemen in great-coats were to be seen.

" These are the men of Saint-Martin-de-Yaulx," Silvere
resumed. " That borough rose almost at the same time as La
Palud. The masters joined the workmen. There are some
rich men there, Miette ; men whose wealth would enable them
to live peacefully at home, but who prefer to risk their lives
in defence of liberty. One cannot but admire these men.
Weapons are very scarce, they've scarcely got a few fowling-
pieces — Do you see those men there, Miette, with a red band
round the left elbow ? They are the leaders."

The contingents descended the hills, however, more rapidly
than Silvere could speak. While he was naming the men from
Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx, two battalions had already traversed
the ray of light which blanched the roadway.

" Did you see," he asked, " the insurgents from Alboise and
Les Tulettes pass by just now? I recognised Burgat the
blacksmith. They must have joined the band to-day. How
they do run ! "

Miette now leaned forward, in order to scrutinise more
closely the little bands as they were described by the young
man. A cold chill assailed her, penetrating her whole bod3%
At this moment a battalion, larger and better disciplined than
the others, appeared. The insurgents composing it, who were
nearly all dressed in blue blouses, wore red sashes round their
waists. One would have thought they were arrayed in uni-
form. A man on horseback, with a sabre at his side, marched
in the midst of them. Most of these improvised soldiers
carried guns, probably carbines and old muskets of the National
Guard.

" I don't know those," Silvere said. " The man on horse-
back must be the chief I've heard speak of. He brought with
him the contingents from Faverolles and the neighbouring
villages. The whole column ought to be equipped in the same
manner."

34 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

He had no time to take breath.

" Ah ! see, here are the country people ! " he cried.

Small groups, consisting of ten or twenty men at most, were
advancing behind the men of Faverolles. They all wore the
short jacket of the Southern peasants. As they sang, they
brandished pitchforks and scythes. Some of them had only
large navvies' shovels. Every hamlet had sent its able-bodied
men.

Silvere, who recognised the parties by their leaders,
enumerated them with a feverish voice.

*' The contingent from Chavanoz ! " he said. " There are
only eight men but they are strong; uncle Antoine knows them.
Here's Nazeres ! here's Poujols ! thej'-'re all here, not one has
failed to answer the summons. Valqueyras ! Hold, there's the
parson amongst them; I've heard about him, he's a staunch
republican."

He was becoming intoxicated, and, as each battalion con-
sisted only of a few insurgents, the haste and precipitation
with which he named them gave him the appearance of one in
a frenzy.

"Ah! Miette," he continued, "what a fine march past!
Rozan ! Vernoux ! Corbiere ! and there are more still, you'll see.
They've only got scythes, but they'll mow down the troops as
close as the grass in their meadows — Saint-Eutrope ! Mazet !
Les Gardes ! Marsanne ! the entire north side of the Seille !
Ah ! we shall be victorious ! The whole country is with us.
Look at those men's arms, they are brawny and black as iron.
There's no end to them. There's Pruinas ! Roches-Noires !
These last are smugglers : they are carrying carbines. Still
more scythes and pitchforks, the contingents from the country
are still passing. Castel-le-Vieux ! Sainte-Anne ! Graille !
Estourmel ! Murdaran ! "

And, with a voice stifled by emotion, he finished naming
these men who seemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as
fast as he enumerated them. Stretching forward with burning
countenance, he pointed out the several contingents with a
nervous gesture. Miette followed his movements. She felt
attracted towards the end of the road as by the depths of a
precipice. To avoid slipping down the incline, she clung to
the young man's neck. A strange intoxication rose from this
crowd of men, inebriated with clamour, courage, and confidence.
These creatures, seen through a ray of light, growing lads and

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 35

matured men, these old people brandishing theii' strange weapons
and dressed in the most diverse costumes, from the workman's
smock-frock to the gentleman's overcoat, this endless file of
heads, which the time and circumstances had rendered indelible
images of fanatical energy and enthusiasm, gradually assumed,
before the young girl's e3"es, the whirling impetuosity of a
torrent. At certain moments, she fancied they were not mov-
ing, that they were really being carried away by the force of
the " Marseillaise " with its hoarse, formidable intonations. She
could not distinguish any conversation, hearing only one con-
tinuous rumbling, alternating from dull to shrill notes, as sharp
as nails stuck into one's flesh by jerks. This roaring of the
revolt, this call to combat, to death, with its outbursts of in-
dignation, its burning desires for liberty, its remarkable mix-
ture of massacres and sublime flights, as it struck her heart
unceasingly, and more deeply at every fierce outburst of the
rhythm, caused her one of those exquisite pangs of a virgin
martyr standing erect and smiling under the lash. And the
crowd flowed on, rolling upon the sonorous billow. The march-
past, which did not last more than a few minutes, seemed to
the young people to be interminable.

Truly, Miette was but a child. She had turned pale at the
approach of the band, she had wept for the loss of him who
was dear to her ; but she was a brave girl whose ardent
nature was easily fired by enthusiasm. She shook off the
emotion which had gradually got possession of her, and became
as courageous as a boy. - She would willingly have seized a
weapon and followed the insurgents. As the muskets and
scythes filed past, her white teeth peered forth longer and
sharper from between her red lips, like the tusks of a young
wolf eager to bite. And, as she listened to Silvere enumera-
ting the contingents from the country with ever-increasing
haste, the pace of the column seemed to her to accelerate still
more with his every word. It soon appeared as though carried
away, like a cloud of human dust swept along by a tempest.
Everything began to whirl before her. She closed her eyes,
from which large warm tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Silvere's eyelashes were also moist.

''• I don't see the men who left Plassans this afternoon," he
murmured.

He tried to distinguish the end of the column, which was
still in the shade. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation ;

36 THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

** Ah ! here they are ! They've got the banner — the banner
has been entrusted to them ! "

He wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his com-
panions ; at this moment, however, the insurgents halted.
Words of command ran along the column, the "Marseillaise"
died out in a final rumbling, and one could only hear the con-
fused murmurs of the still surging crowd. Silvere, as he
listened, comprehended the orders despatched to the various
contingents, and which called the men of Plassans to the van.
As each battalion ranged itself along the side of the road to
make way for the banner, the 3'oung man began to re-ascend
the slope, dragging Miette along with him.

" Come," he said, " we shall get in front of them at the
other side of the bridge."

When they were on the top, among the tilled lands, they
ran along to the mill, the dam of which bars the river. They
crossed the Viorne on a plank, placed there by the millers.
They cut aslant through the meadows of Sainte-Claire, running
hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word. The column pro-
jected a dark line over the highway, which they followed
along the hedges. There were some openings amidst the
hawthorns. Silvere and Miette jumped on to the main road
througQ one of them.

In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived
at the same time as the men of Plassans. Silvere shook hands
with some of them. They must have thought he had ascer-
tained the new route taken by the insurgents, and had come to
meet them. Miette, whose face was half-concealed by the
hood of her pelisse, was scrutinised rather inquisitively.

" Why, it's Chantegreil," said one of the men from the
Faubourg, " the niece of Rebufat, the me'ger * of the Jas-
Meiffren."

"Where do 3^ou spring from, gad-about?" cried another
voice.

Silvere, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of the
singular figure which his sweetheart would offer to the Certain
jeers of the workmen. Miette, confused looked at him, as if
to implore his aid. But before he could even open his lips
another voice rose from the crowd, exclaiming with brutality:

* A miger is a farmer in Provence, who shares the expenses and
profits of his farm with the owner of the land. — Translator's Note.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 37

*' Her father's in prison ; we don't want the daughter of a
thief and murderer amongst us,"

Miette turned dreadfully pale.

" You lie ! " she muttered; "if my father has killed anybody,
he has never thieved."

And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, was
clenching his fists :

'' Stop," she continued, " this is my affair.''

Then turning round to the group, she repeated with a shout:

" You lie ! you lie ! he never stole a copper from anybody.
You know it well enough. Why do you insult him when he
can't be here ? "

She drew herself up, superb with indignation — her ardent,
half- wild nature seemed to accept with resignation the accu-
sation of murder, but the charge of theft exasperated her.
They knew it, and that is why the crowd, from a stupid
viciousness, often thrust the accusation in her face.

The man who had just called her father a thief was merely
repeating what he had heard said for many years. The girl's
defiant attitude only incited the workmen to jeer all the more.
Silvere continued to clench his fists, and matters were becoming
serious, when a huntsman from the Seille, who had been sitting
on a heap of stones at the roadside awaiting the order to
march, came to the young girl's assistance.

" The little one's right," he said, " Cliantegreil was one of
us. I knew him. Nobody knows the facts of his little matter.
I always believed in the truth of his deposition before the
judges. The gendarme whom he brought down at the chase
with a ball from his musket was no doubt taking aim at him
with his carbine. A man must defend himself I should think !
But Chantegreil was a decent fellow, he committed no robbery."

As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this
poacher sufficed to bring other defenders to Miette's aid.
Several workmen also professed to have known Chantegreil.

"Yes, yes, it's quite true ! " they all said. "He wasn't a
thief. There are some scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be
sent to prison in his place. Chantegreil was our brother.
Come now, be calm, little one."

Miette had never heard an}^ one speak well of her father.
He was generally spoken of before her as a beggar, a villain,
and now she found some brave hearts who had foro^iving- words
for him, who declared him to be an honest man. She burst

C

38 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

into tears, feeling an emotion similar to that awakened in her
by the " Marseillaise;" and she bethought herself how she could
thank these men for their kindness to her in misfortune. For
a moment she conceived the idea of shaking them all by the
hand like a man. But her heart suggested something better.
At her side stood the insurgent who carried the banner. She
touched the staff, and, to express her gratitude, said in a
suppliant tone :

" Give it to me ; I will carry it."

The simple-minded workmen comprehended the ingenuous
sublimity of this expression of thankfulness.

" Yes," they all cried, " Chantegreil shall carry the
banner."

A wood-cutter ventured the remark that she would soon
get tired, and would not be able to go very far.

" Oh ! yes, I'm quite strong," she said, with pride, tucking
up her sleeves and showing a pair of arms as big as those of
a grown woman.

" Wait a minute," she resumed, as they handed her the
banner.

She pulled off her cloak quickly and put it on again, after
turning the red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she
appeared to be covered with a large purple cloak reaching
down to her feet. The hood hanging on the edge of her
chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the
banner, pressed the staff to her bosom, and stood upright in
the folds of the blood-coloured streamer which waved behind
her. The elated child's head, with its curly hair, large eyes
moist with tears, and lips half opened in a smile, rose with
energetic pride as she drew herself up, as it were, towards the
sky. At this moment she was the virgin Liberty.

The insurgents burst into tumultuous applause. The vivid
imagination of these Southerners was fired with enthusiasm at
the sudden apparition of this girl nervously clasping their
banner to her bosom. Shouts rose from the crowd :

'^ Bravo, Chantegreil ! Chantegreil for ever ! She shall
remain with us ; she'll bring us luck ! "

They would have cheered her for a long time had not the
order to resume march arrived. Whilst the column was
moving, Miette pressed Silvere's hand as he returned to her
side, and whispered in his ear :

" You hear ! I shall remain with you. Are you glad ? "

MIETTE ACCOMPANYING THE INSURGENTS IN THEIR MARCH

ON PLASSANS. p. 3s.

THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 39

Silvere, without replying, returned the pressure. He was
agreeable. In fact, he was deeply affected and quite unable
to resist the enthusiasm which fired his companions. Miette
seemed to him so lovely, so grand, so saintly! During the
climb up the hill he gazed at her, radiating with purple glory.
Now he confused her with his other adored mistress — the
Eepublic. He would have liked to be there already, with his
gun over his shoulder. The insurgents moved slowlj^ They
were ordered to make as little noise as possible. The column
advanced between the rows of elms like a gigantic serpent
whose every ring was seized with a strange quivering. The
frosty December night had recovered its silence, and the Yiorne
alone seemed to roar rather louder.

Arrived at the first houses in the Faubourg, Silvere ran on
in front to the Aire Saint-Mittre to fetch his gun, which he
found lying in the moonlight. When he regained the in-
surgents they had reached the Porte de Rome. Miette bent
forward, and, with a childish smile, observed :

" I feel as if I were at the procession on Corpus Christi
day carrying the banner of the Virgin."

40

CHAPTER II.

Plassans is a sub-prefecture of about ten thousand inhabitants.
Built on a plateau overlooking" the Viorne, and resting" on the
north side against the Garrigues hills, one of the last branches
of the Alps, the town is situated, as it were, at the bottom of a
cul-de-sac. In 1851 it communicated with the adjoining-
country by two roads only, the Nice road, which runs down to
the east, and the Lyons road, which rises to the west, the one
continuing the other in almost parallel lines. Since that time,
a railway has been constructed w^hich passes to the south of
the town, at the foot of the hill which descends with a steep
declivity from the old ramparts to the river. At the present
day, on coming- out of the station on the right bank of the little
torrent, one can see, by raising one's head, the first houses of
Plassans, the gardens of which form a terrace. It takes a full
quarter of an hour's ascent to reach these houses.

About twenty years ago, owing, no doubt, to the lack of
intercommunication, there was no town that had preserved
more completely the devout and aristocratic character which
distinguishes the old Provencale cities. It had, at that time,
and has even now, a whole district of large mansions built in
the time of Louis XIV and Louis XV, a dozen churches,
houses belonging to the Jesuits and Capuchins, and a con-
siderable number of convents. The distinction of class was
preserved for a long time by the division of its various districts.
li Plassans has three of them, each forming, as it were, a separate
f and complete borough, with its own churches, promenades,
customs, and horizons.

The district of the nobility, called Saint-Marc, after the
name of one of its officiating parish churches, a sort of miniature
Versailles with its straight streets overgrown with grass,
the large square houses of which conceal extensive gardens
behind them, extends to the south along the edge of the plateau.
Some of the mansions built on the declivity itself have a double
row of terraces from which one can see the whole valley of the

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 41

Viorne, forming an admirable post of observation much vaunted
in the country. The old quarter, formed of the original town,
rises on the north-west with its narrow tortuous lanes bordered
with tottering- hovels. The Mairie, the Civil Tribunal, the
Market, and the Gendarmerie are situated there ; this, the most
populous part of Plassans, is inhabited by working-men, shop-
keepers, and all the wretched, toiling, common people. The
new town forms a sort of long square to the north-east,
the well-to-do, those who have slowly amassed a fortune, and
those engaged in the liberal professions, occupy houses built
beautifully straight and covered with a light yellow coating.
This district, which is embellished by the Sub-Prefecture, an
ugly plaster building decorated with rosework, numbered
scarcely five or six streets in 1851; it is of quite recent forma-
tion, and, since the construction of the railway, seems the only
part which is growing in extent.

One circumstance which at the present time divides Plassans
into three independent and distinct parts, is that the districts
are clearly defined by broad thoroughfares. The Cours
Sauvaire and the Rue de Rome, which is, as it were, a narrow
extension of it, run from w-est to east, from the Grand'-Porte to
the Porte de Rome, thus cutting the town into two portions,- and
dividing the quarter of th^ iinVnlify frr)|-|-| tjnf^ f^T-rw^the^'^ The
latter are themselves bounded by the Rue de la Banne ; this
street, the finest one in that part of the country, commences at
the extremity of the Cours Sauvaire, and ascends towards the
north, leaving on its left the black masses of the old quarter,
and on its right the light-yellow houses of the new town.
There, about half-way along the street, stands the Sub-
Prefecture at the back of a small Place planted with sickly
trees ; the people of Plassans are very proud of this monument.

As if to keep more isolated and shut up within itself, the
town is surrounded by a belt of old ramparts, which only serve
to increase the gloom of the place, and to render it more con-
fined. These ridiculous fortifications, eaten into by ivy, and
crowned with wild gillyflowers, and which are about as high
and as thick as the walls of a convent, could be demolished by
gunshot. They are pierced with several openings, the two
principal ones of which, the Porte de Rome and the Grand'-Porte,
open respectively on to the Nice road and the Lyons road at
the other end of the town. Until 1853 these openings were
furnished with enormous wooden two-leaved doors, arched at

42 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS.

the top, and strengthened with bars of iron. These gates
were double-locked at eleven o'clock in summer, and ten
o'clock in winter. The town, having thus shot the bolts like
a timid girl, went quietly to sleep. A guardian, who lived in
a little cell placed in one of the interior angles of each gate-
way, was authorised to open for any belated persons. But it
was necessary to stand parleying a long time. The guardian
would not let the people in until he had scrutinised their faces
carefully through a peep-hole by the lig'ht of his lantern ; if
their looks displeased him they had to sleep outside. This
custom of locking the gates every evening is highly charac-
teristic of the spirit of the town, a mixture of cowardice,
egotism, routine, exclusiveness, and religious longing for a
cloistered life. Plassans, Avhen it had well shut itself up
would say to itself, " I am at home," with the satisfaction of
a devout citizen, who, assured of the safety of his cash-box,
and certain not to be roused by any noise, says his prayers and
retires gladly to bed. No other town has, I believe, persisted
so long in incarcerating itself like a nun.

The population of Plassans Is^divided into three groups,
corresponding with the same number of districts. Putting aside
the functionaries— the sub-prefect, the receiver of taxes, the
mortgage commissioner, and the postmaster, who are all
strangers to the countr}^, where they are the objects of envy
rather than esteem, and who live after their own fashion — the
real inhabitants, those who were born there and have every
intention of ending their detjs there, have too much respect for
traditional usages and established boundaries not to pen them-
selves up in one or other of the groups of the town.

The nobility are hermetically immured. Since the fall of
Charles X they scarcely ever go out, and when they do, they
hasten back to their large dismal mansions, walking along fur-
tively as though they were in a hostile countr}^. They do not visit
any one, nor do they even receive each other. Their drawing-
rooms are frequented by a few priests oni3\ They spend the
summer in the chateaux which they possess in the environs ;
in the winter they sit round their firesides. They are, as it
were, dead people weary of life. Consequently the gloomy
silence of a cemetery hangs over their quarter of the town.
The doors and windows are carefully barricaded ; one would
think their mansions were so many cony^nts shut off from the
tumult without. At rare intervals an abbe, whose measured

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 43

tread adds to the gloomy silence of these sealed houses, passes
by and disappears like a shadow through a half-opened door.

The well-to-do people, the retired tradesmen, the lawyers,
notaries, and all the little easy-going ambitious world inhabiting
the new town, endeavour to infuse some liveliness into Plassans.
They go to the parties given by the sub-prefect, and dream of
making a similar return. The}^ eagerly seek popularity, call a
workman " my good man," chat with the peasants about the
harvest, read the papers, and walk out with their wives on
Sunday. They constitute the enlightened minds of the district,
the only persons who venture to speak disparagingly'' of the
ramparts ; in fact they have several times demanded the
demolition, by the " Ediles," of these old walls, relics of a
former age. The most sceptical among them, moreover, give
way to a violent feeling of delight whenever a marquis or a
count deigns to honour them with a stiff salutation. The dream
of every citizen of the new town is to be admitted to a
drawing-room of the Saint-Marc quarter. They know very
well that their ambition is not attainable, and the consciousness
of this causes them to proclaim all the louder that they are
freethinkers ; but they are freethinkers in words only,- firm
friends of the authorities, ready to rush into the arms of the
first deliverer on the least indication of popular discontent.

The group which toils and vegetates in the old quarter is
not so clearly defined. The labouring classes are in a majority ;
but the retail traders and even a few wholesale dealers are to
be found among them. As a matter of fact, Plassans is far
from being a commercial centre ; there is just sufficient trade
done there to dispose of the products of the country — oil, wine,
and almonds. As for industrial labour, it is almost entirely
represented by three or four tanyards which infest one of the
streets of the old quarter, a felt hat manufactory, and some soap-
boiling works which are relegated to a corner of the Faubourg.
This little commercial and industrial world, though it may on
high days and holidays visit the people of the new town,
generally takes up its quarters among the operatives of the
old. Merchants, retail traders, and artisans have a community of
interest which unites them together in one family. On Sunday
only the masters wash themselves, and assemble together
apart. The labouring classes, on the other band, constituting
scarcely a fifth of the population, mingle with the idlers of the
country.

/

44 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

Once a week, only, during- the fine weather, the three dis-
tricts of Plassans come together face to face. The whole town
repairs to the Cours Sauvaire on Sunday after vespers ; even the
nobility venture thither. Three separate and distinct currents
move along this sort of boulevard planted with two rows of
plane trees. The well-to-do citizens of the new town merely
pass along it, quit the town by the Grand'-Porte, and take the
Avenue du Mail on the right, where they walk up and down till
nightfall. Daring this time, the nobility and the lower classes
share the Cours Sauvaire between them. For more than a cen-
tury past, the nobility have selected the walk on the south side,
which is bordered with a row of large mansions, and is the first to
escape the heat of the sun ; the lower classes have to rest content
with the other walk on the north side where the cafes, inns, and
tobacconists are located. The people and the nobility pro-
menade the whole afternoon, walking up and down the Cours
without an}^ one of either party thinking of changing sides.
They are separated by six or eight yards, and yet they keep a
thousand "leagues away from each other, as it were, following
scrupulously the two parallel lines, as though they ought not
to meet one another here below. Even during the revolutionary
epochs, each party kept to its own side. This regulation walk
on Sunday and the locking of the gates in the evening are
analogous cases which suffice to portray the character of the
ten thousand souls inhabiting the town.

Here, in this particular spot, until the year 1848, there
vegetated an obscure family who enjoyed little esteem, but
whose head, Pierre Rougon, subsequently played an important
role owing to certain circumstances.

Pierre Rougon was the son of a peasant. His mother's
family, named Fouque, owned, towards the end of the last
century, a vast piece of ground in the Faubourg, behind
the old cemetery of Saint-Mittre, and which was subse-
quently joined to the Jas-Meiffren. The Fouques were the
richest market-gardeners in the country ; they used to supply
an entire district of Plassans with vegetables. The name
of this family died out a few years before the Revolution.
Only one girl, Adelaide, remained; she was born in 1768 and
became an orphan at the age of eighteen. This girl, whose
father died insane, was a long, lank, pale creature, with a scared
look and strange gait, which one might have taken for shyness
so long as she was a little girl. As she grew up, however,

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 45

she became still stranger ; she did certain things which were
inexplicable even to the cleverest heads of the Faubourg, and
from that time it was rumoured that she was cracked like her
father,

iSlie had scarcely been an orphan six months, in possession of
a fortune which rendered her an eagerly-sought heiress, when
it transpired that she had married a young gardener named
Rougon, a rough-hewn peasant from the Basses-Alpes. This
Rougon, after the death of the last of the male Fouques, who
had engaged him for a term, had remained in the service of the
deceased's daughter. /From a salaried servant he ascended
rapidly to the enviable position of husband. /This marriage was
a first shock to public opinion. No one could comprehend why
Adelaide preferred this poor devil, coarse, heavy, vulgar,
scarcely able to speak French, to those other j^oung men, sons
of well-to-do farmers, who had been seen hovering round her for
some time. And, as provincial people do not allow anything to
remain unexplained, they made sure there was some mystery at
the bottom of this affair, alleging even that the marriage of the
two young people had become an absolute necessity. But
events proved the falsity of the accusation. Adelaide had a son
at end of twelve full months. The Faubourg was anno^^ed ;
it could not admit that it was wrong, and determined to
penetrate the supposed mystery ; therefore all the old gossips
kept a watch upon the Rougons. They soon found ample
matter for tittle-tattle. Rougon died almost suddenly, fifteen
months after his marriage, from a sunstroke received one after-
noon as he was weeding a bed of carrots.

Scarcely a year had elapsed before the young widow caused
an unheard-of scandal. It became known, as an indisputable
fact, that she had a lover. She did not appear to have made
any secret of it ; several persons asserted that they had heard
her use endearing terms, in public, to poor Rougon's successor.
Scarcely a year of widowhood and a lover already ! Such a
disregard of propriety seemed monstrous, out of all reason.
The scandal was heightened by Adelaide's strange choice. At
that time there dwelt at the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre,
in a hovel the back of which abutted on the Fouques* plot
of ground, a man of bad repute, who was generally referred
to as " that scoundrel Macquart." This man used to vanish
for weeks and then turn up one fine evening, sauntering
about with empty arms and hands in his pockets, whistling as

46 THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGOKS.

though he had just come from a short walk. And the women
sittmg" at their doorsteps would remark as he passed : " There's
that scoundrel Macquart ! he has hidden his bales and his gun
in some hollow of the Viorne." The truth was, Macquart had
no means, but he used to eat and drink like a happy drone
during his short sojourns in the town. He drank enormously,
with fierce obstinacy. Seating himself at a table apart at the
furthest end of a tavern, he would lose all consciousness, fixing
his eyes stupidly on his glass, neither seeing nor hearing anj-
thino: around him. When the landlord closed his establishment,
he would retire with a firm step, and keeping his head erect as if
held up by inebriation. " Macquart walks pretty straight, he's
dead drunk," people used to say, as they saw him going home.
Usually when he had had no drink, he walked with a slight
curvature, avoiding the gaze of the curious with a kind of
savage timidity.

Since the death of his father, a journeyman tanner who had
left him as a sole heritage the hovel in the Impasse Saint-
Mittre, he was never known to have either relatives or friends.
The proximity of the frontiers and the neighbouring forests of
the Seille had turned this singular lazy personage into a com-
bination of smuggler and poacher, one of those suspicious-
looking persons of whom the passers-by observe : " I shouldn't
care to meet that fellow at midnight in a dark wood." Tall,
with a formidable beard and lean face, Macquart was the
terror of the good women of the Faubourg; they used
to accuse him of devouring little children raw. Though he
was hardly thirty years old, he looked fifty. Under his stubbly
beard and locks of hair which covered his face like a poodle,
one could only distinguish the gleams of his brown eyes, the
furtive sorrowful glance of a man of vagrant instincts, rendered
vicious by wine and a pariah life. Although no crimes had
actually been brought home to him, the first suspicions always
fell upon him whenever a theft or murder had been perpetrated
in the country.

And it was this monster, this brigand, this scoundrel Mac-
quart whom Adelaide had chosen ! In twenty months she had
two children, first a boy and then a girl. There was no ques-
tion of marriage between them. Never had the Faubourg seen
such audacious impropriety. The stupefaction was so great,
the idea of Macquart having found a young and wealthy
mistress upset to such a degree the beliefs of the gossips, that

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 47

they even felt somewhat grieved for Adelaide. '' Poor thing-,
she's gone quite mad" they would say: "If she had any
relatives she would have been placed in confinement long ago."
And as they never knew anything of the history of these
strange amours, they accused that rogue Macquart of having
taken advantage of Adelaide's weak mind to rob her of her
money.

The legitimate son, little Pierre Rougon, grew up with his
mother's bastards. Adelaide kept the latter with her, Antoine
and Ursule, the young wolves as they were called in the district,
treating them as affectionately as her first child. She did not
appear to entertain a very clear idea of the position in life
reserved for these two poor creatures. To her they were the
same, in every respect, as her first-born. She would sometimes
go out holding Pierre with one hand and Antoine with the
other, not observing the difference with which the two little
fellows were regarded.

It was a strange house. For nearly'' twenty years every one
lived in it after his own fancy, the children lilve the mother.
Everything went on free from control. In growing to woman-
hood, Adelaide had remained that strange girl who, at the age
of fifteen, was looked upon as a savage ; not that she was insane,
as the people of the Faubourg asserted, but there was a want
of equilibrium between her nerves and her blood, a disorder of
the brain and heart which made her lead a life out of the
ordinar}^, different from the rest of the world. .She was
certainly very natural, very consistent with herself; to the
eyes of the neighbours, however, her consistency sprang from
her insanity. She seemed desirous of being conspicuous,
wiclvcdly allowing everything at home to go from bad to worse
while she obeyed, with great naivete, the impulses of her own
nature.

Ever since her first confinement, she had been subject to
nervous fits which brought on terrible convulsions. These
attacks recurred periodically, every two or three months. The
doctors whom she consulted declared they could do nothing
for her, that age would weaken the severity of the attacks.
They prescribed for her a dietary regimen of underdone meat
and quinine. These repeated shocks produced the cerebral
disorder. She lived from day to day like a child, like a fawn-
ing animal yielding to its instincts. When Macquart was on
his round, she passed her days in lazy, pensive idleness, taking

48 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

no concern for her children, excepting- when she wanted to
kiss and play with them. Then as soon as her lover returned
she would disappear.

Behind Macquart's hovel there was a little j^ard, separated
from the Fouques' property by a wall. One morning" the
neighbours were much astonished to find a door placed in this
wall which was not there the previous evening-. Before an
hour had elapsed, the entire Faubourg* had flocked -to the
neighbouring windows. The lovers must have worked the
whole night to pierce the opening" and place the door thera
They could now go freely from one house to the other. The
scandal was revived, every one felt less pity for Adelaide, who
was certainly the disgrace of the Faubourg ; this door, this
tacit, brutal avowal of their union, was the cause of more
reproaches being heaped upon her than even her two children.
" People should at least study appearances," the most tolerant
women would say. Adelaide did not understand what was
meant by studying appearances. She was very happy, very
proud of her door ; she had assisted Macquart to knock the
stone from the wall and had even mixed the mortar so that the
work might proceed the quicker ; she came with childish delight
on the morrow to inspect the work by daylight, which circum-
stance appeared the consummation of her shamelessness to three
gossips who observed her contemplating the masonry. From
that time, whenever Macquart reappeared, it was thought, as
no one ever saw the j^oung woman, that she had gone to live
with him in the hovel of the Impasse Saint-Mi ttre.

The smuggler used to come very irregularly, almost always
unexpectedly^ Nobody ever knew what life the lovers led
during the two or three days he spent in the town at distant
intervals. They used to shut themselves up ; the little dwell-
ing seemed uninhabited. The Faubourg having decided that
Macquart had seduced Adelaide for the sole purpose of con-
suming her money, it was astonished, after a time, to see this
man continue his former mode of existence, ever up hill and
down dale, as badly equipped as heretofore. * Perhaps the
young woman loved him all the more for seeing him at rare
intervals, perhaps he had disregarded her entreaties, feeling an
irresistible desire for a life of adventure. The Faubourg
invented a thousand fables, without succeeding in giving any
reasonable explanation of a connection which had been formed
and continued in an extraordinary manner. The hovel in

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 49

the Impasse Saint-Mittre remained hermetically sealed and
preserved its secrets. One. merely guessed that in all proba-
bility Macquart was in the habit of beating* Adelaide, although
the sound of a quarrel never issued from the house. On seve-
ral occasions she reappeared with her face black and blue, and
her hair torn out in handfuls. However, she did not display
the least dejection or grief, nor did she seek in any way to
hide her wounds. She smiled, and alwa5's seemed happy. No
doubt she allowed herself to be beaten without breathing a
word. This existence lasted for more than fifteen years.

"When Adelaide returned home she would find the house
upside down, but would not take the least notice of it. She
was utterly ignorant of the practical meaning of life, of the
proper value of things and the necessity for order.

She let her children grow up like those plum-trees which
thrive along the highways at the pleasure of the rain and sun.
They bore their natural fruits like wild stock which has never
known the grafting or pruning knife. Never was nature
allowed so much sway, never did such little mischievous
creatures grow. up more freely under the influence of their own
natural impulses. Meanwhile they rolled among the vege-
tables, passing their days in the open air, -plsiy'mg and fighting
like good-for-nothing boys. They would steal the provisions
from the house and pillage the few fruit-trees in the enclosure ;
they were the demons of the family, the plunderers and
squallers of this strange domicile of lucid insanity. '\'\nien
their mother was absent for days together, they used to make
such an uproar, they hit upon fuch diabolical expedients for
annoying people, that the neighbours had to threaten them
with the whip. Moreover, Adelaide did not frighten them
much ; if they were less obnoxious to other people when she
was there, it was because they made her the victim, playing
the truant regularly five or six times a week, doing everything
they could to receive some punishment which would allow
them to squall to their hearts' content. But she never beat
them, nor even lost h3r temper ; she lived very well in all the
noise, placidl}'', indolently, in a state of mental abstraction.

At last, the frightful uproar of these good-for-nothing
urchins became indispensable to her to fill the void in her
brain. She smiled complacently when she heard any one say :
" Her children will beat her, and it will serve her right." Her
utter indifference to everything seemed to reply : " What

50 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

does it matter ? " She troubled even less about her property
than about her children. The Fouques' enclosure, during the
many years this singular existence lasted, would have become
a piece of waste ground, if the young woman had not had the
good fortune to entrust the cultivation of her vegetables to
the care of a clever market-gardener. This man, who was to
share the profits with her, robbed her impudently, though she
never noticed it. This circumstance had its advantage, how-
ever ; for, in order to steal the more, the gardener had to draw
as much as possible from the land, which almost doubled in
value in consequence.

Pierre, the legitimate child, either from secret instinct or
from his knowledge of the different manner in which they were
treated by the neighbours, domineered over his brother and
sister from his early childhood. In their quarrels, although
he was much weaker than Antoine, he always got the better
of him. With regard to Ursule, poor, puny, wan little
creature, she was roughly handled by both of them. Indeed,
until the age of fifteen or sixteen, the three children fraternally
beat each other unmercifully, giving no reason for their vague
mutual hatred, and not knowing very clearly how dissimilar
they were to each other. It was only at this age that they
found themselves face to face with their definite self-conscious
personalities.

When seventeen, Antoine was a tall fellow, displaying the
blended imperfections of Macquart and Adelaide. Macquart,
however, predominated with his love of vagrancy, his tendency
to drunkenness, and his brutish passions. But under the ner-
vous influence of Adelaide those vices, which in the father
assumed a kind of sanguinary frankness, became, in the son,
an artfulness full of hypocrisy and cowardice, Antoine re-
sembled his mother in his total want of dignified will, in hia
effeminate voluptuous egotism, which disposed him to accept
any bed of infamy provided*he could lounge upon it at his ease
and sleep warmly in it. The people used to say to him : ''Ah !
the brigand! he has not even the courage of his villany like
Macquart ; if ever he commits a murder, it will be with pin
pricks." Physically, Antoine inherited Adelaide's thick lips
only; his other features were those of the smuggler, but
softened and rendered tapering and flexible.

Ursule, on the other hand, showed the greatest resemblance
to the young woman, both physically and morally. The two

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 51

prototypes were, however, still closely interwoven, excepting
that the poor little thing, who was born the second, at the time
when Adelaide's love was warmer than Macquart's consider-
ably cooled affections, seemed to have received, with her sex,
a deeper impress of her mother's temperament. Moreover,
hers was not a fusion of the two natures, but rather a juxta-
position, a remarkably close soldering. The whimsical Ursule
displayed, at times, the shyness, the melancholy, and the trans-
ports of a pariah. She would then generally break out into
nervous fits of laughter, musing lazily, like a woman unsound
in head and heart. Her eyes, which wore a scared look like
those of Adelaide, were as limpid as crj^stal, similar to those of
young cats who are doomed to die of consumption.

In the face of these two bastards Pierre seemed a stranger;
to one who had not penetrated to the roots of his being
he would have appeared profoundly dissimilar. Never was a
child so equally balanced between the two persons who had
given birth to it. He was the exact medium between the
peasant Rougon and the nervous Adelaide. His mother had,
as it were, rough-hewn his father in him. That latent evolu-
tion of temperaments which ultimate^ determines the ameliora-
tion or deterioration of a race seemed to have obtained a first
result in Pierre. Although he was still nothing but a peasant,
his skin was less coarse, his head less thick, his intellect more
capacious and more supple. In him the defects of his father
and mother advantageously reacted upon each other. If Ade-
laide's nature, rendered exquisitely sensitive by her rebellious
nerves, had combated and overcome Rougon's heaviness and
ponderous gravity, the latter had successfully resisted, in the
child, the young woman's tendency to cerebral disorders.
Pierre did not know either the passions or the sickly ravings
of Macquart's young wolves. Very badly brought up, unruly
and noisy, like all children who are not restrained during their
infancy, he nevertheless possessed a reasoning intelligence
which would always preserve him from perpetrating any use-
less, unproductive folly. His vices, his laziness, his appetite
for indulgence, had not that instinctive play about them which
characterised Antoine's vices ; he intended to cultivate and
gratify them honourably and openly. In his plump person of
medium height, in his long pale face, in which his father's
features had borrowed a certain refinement from those of his
mother, one could already discern the sly, crafty ambition, the

UNIVERSITY OF \am^*^

52 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

insatiable desire for gratification, the hard heart and envious
hatred of a peasant's son, converted by his mother's fortune
and nervous temperament into a member of the middle classes.
y When, at the ag-e of seventeen, Pierre observed and was
able to understand Adelaide's disorders and the singular posi-
tion of Antoine and Ursule, he seemed neither sorry nor
indignant, but, simply much preoccupied by the steps which
his own interests counselled him to take. He was the only
one of the three children who had pursued his studies with
any industry. A peasant who begins to feel the need of
instruction becomes, most frequently', a fierce calculator. At
school his playmates roused his first suspicion by their hootings
and the insulting manner in which they treated his brother.
Later on he came to understand the significance of man}'' looks
and words. He clearly recognised, at last, the disordered state
of the household. From that time forward, Antoine and Ursule
were regarded by him as shameless parasites, as mouths who
were devouring his own substance. Like the people of the
Faubourg, he thought that his mother was a fit subject for
a lunatic asylum, and was afraid that she would in the end
squander all his money, if he did not take steps to prevent her.
What principally broke his heart was the robbery committed
b}'' the gardener. This unruly child was transformed in
one day into a thrifty, selfish lad, hurriedly matured, as
regards his instincts, bj'' the strange iniprovident life which
he could no longer ' bear to see around him without a
feeling of grief and anguish. Those vegetables, from the
sale of which the market-gardener derived the largest profits,
belonged to him ; the wine which his mother's bastards
drank, the bread they ate, belonged to him. The whole house,
the entire fortune, was his ; according to his boorish logic, he
alone, the legitimate son, was the heir. And as his riches were
in danger, as everybody was greedily gnawing at his future
fortune, he sought a means of turning them all out — mother,
brother, sister, servants — and of succeeding immediately to
his inheritance.

The conflict was cruel ; the lad knew that, first of all, he
would have to. battle with his mother. Step by step, with a
patient tenacity, he executed a plan, every detail of which he
had matured a long time previously. His tactics were to appear
before Adelaide as a living reproach — not. that he flew into a
passion, or upbraided her for her misconduct; but he had acquired

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 63

a certain manner of looking- at her, without saying* a word, which
terrified her. "When she returned from a short sojourn in
Macquart's hovel she could not look at her son without a
shudder. She felt his cold glances, as sharp as steel blades,
pierce her deeply and pitilessly. The severe, taciturn attitude
of Pierre, of the child of that man whom she had so soon for-
gotten, strangely troubled her poor disordered brain. She
would fancy that Roug-on had risen from the dead to punish
her for her dissoluteness. Every week she became seized
with one of those nervous fits which were shattering" her con-
stitution. During" these attacks she was left to struggle until
she recovered consciousness, after which she would refasten
her clothes and creep about more feebly than ever. She would
often sob the whole night, holding her head in her hands,
accepting Pierre's insults with resignation, as the strokes of an
avenging deity. At other times she repudiated him; she would
not acknowledge her own flesh and blood in this coarse lad,
whose calmness so sadly chilled her feverishness. She would
a thousand times rather have been beaten than glared at like
that. Those implacable looks, which followed her everywhere,
caused her at last such insupportable shocks that on several
occasions she determined not to see her lover any more. As
soon, however, as Macquart returned she forgot her vows and
hastened'to him. The conflict recommenced, more mute, more
terrible, when she returned. At the end of a few months she
fell completely under her son's sway. She stood before him
like a little girl doubtful of her own good behaviour and
alwaj^s fearing that she deserves to be whipped. Pierre had
skilfully bound her hand and foot, and made a very submissive
servant of her, without opening his lips, without entering into
diflScult and compromising explanations.

When the 3'oung man felt that his mother was in his power,
that he could treat her like a slave, he commenced, in his own
interest, to make the most of her cerebral weakness and the
foolish terror with which one of his glances inspired her. His
first care, as soon as he was master at home, was to dismiss the
market-gardener and replace him by one of his own creatures.
He took the supreme direction of the household, selling,
buying, and holding the cash-box. On the other hand, he made
no attempt to regulate Adelaide's actions, nor to correct Antoine
and Ursule for their laziness. It mattered little to him, for he
counted upon getting rid of thes^ people as soon as an oppor-

D

54 THE FOKTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

tunity presented itself. He contented himself with portioning-
out their bread and water. Then, having already got all the
fortune in his own hands, he awaited an event which would
permit him to dispose of it as he pleased.

Circumstances proved singularly favourable to him. He
escaped the conscription on the ground of being the eldest
son of a widow. But two years later Antoine was called out.
His bad luck did not affect him much ; he counted on his
mother purchasing a substitute for him. Adelaide, in fact,
wished to save him from serving ; Pierre, however, who held
the money, turned a deaf ear. His brother's compulsory de-
parture was a lucky event for him, greatly assisting the accom-
plishment of his plans. When his mother mentioned the matter
to him he gave her such a look that she did not venture to
pursue it. His glare signified : " Do you wish, then, to ruin
me for the sake of your bastard ? " She selfishly abandoned
Antoine, seeking before everything her own peace and
quietness. Pierre, who did not like violent measures, and who
rejoiced at being able to eject his brother without a disturbance,
then played the part of a man in despair : the year had been a
bad one, money was scarce, and he would be compelled to sell
a portion of the land, and this would be the commencement of
their ruin. Then he pledged his word of honour to Antoine
that he would buy him out the following year, though he
was fully determined to do nothing of the sort. Antoine
departed, duped and half satisfied.

Pierre got rid of Ursule in a still more unexpected manner.
A journeyman hatter of the Faubourg, named Mouret, con-
ceived an affection for the young girl whom he thought as
white and delicate as any young lady from the Saint-Marc
quarter. He married her. On his part it was a love match, a
sincere affection, free from all sordid motives. As to Ursule,
she accepted the marriage to escape from a home where her life
was rendered intolerable by her eldest brother. Her mother,
absorbed in her own enjoyments, and using her last efforts to
defend herself, regarded the matter with absolute indifference.
She was even glad of her departure, hoping that Pierre, now
that he had no further cause for dissatisfaction, would let her
live in peace after her own fashion. No sooner had the young-
people been married than Mouret perceived that he would have
to quit Plassans, if he did not wish to hear every day dis-
paraging remarks about his wife and his mother-in-law. He

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 55

went away, taking Ursule with him, to Marseilles, where he
worked at his trade. Moreover, he had not asked for one sou
as a dowry. When Pierre, somewhat surprised at this disinter-
estedness, commenced to stammer out some explanations, he
closed his mouth by saying that he preferred to earn his wife's
bread. The worthy son of the peasant Roug-on remained uneasy
at this indifference, which seemedvto him to conceal some trap.

Adelaide now remained to be disposed of. • Nothing in the
world would induce Pierre to live with her any longer. She
was compromising him, it was with her that he had desired to
make a start. But he found himself hemmed in by two very
embarrasing alternatives : to keep her and expose himself to the
stigma of her disgrace, and so bind a fetter round his feet which
would arrest him in his ambitious flight ; or to turn her out, with
the certainty of being pointed at as a bad son, which would
have upset the calculations of this well-intentioned man.
Knowing that he would be in want of everybody, he desired to
secure an untarnished name throughout Plassans. There was
but one method to adopt, namely, to induce Adelaide to leave
of her own accord. Pierre neglected nothing to accomplish
this end. He considered his mother's misconduct a sufficient
excuse for his own hard-heartedness. He punished her as one
would chastise a child. The tables were turned. The poor
woman cowered under the stick which was constantly held over
her. She was scarcely forty-two years old, and already had
the stammerings of terror, the vague, pitiful looks of an old
woman in her second childhood. Her son continued to stab
her with his piercing glances, hoping that she would run away
when her courage was exhausted. The unfortunate woman
suffered terribly from shame, from restrained desires and injuries
inflicted, receiving the blows with passive resignation and
returning nevertheless to Macquart with the determination to
die on the spot rather than submit. There were nights when
she would have got out of bed, and thrown herself into the
Viorne, if her weak, nervous, effeminate frame had not had an
excruciating fear of death. On several occasions she thought
of running away and rejoining her lover on the frontier. It
was only because she did not know whither to go that she
remained at the house, submitting to her son's contemptuous
silence and secret brutality. Pierre perceived that she would
have left long ago if she had only had a refuge. He awaited an
opportunity to take a little apartment for her somewhere, when

56 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

a fortuitous circumstance, which he had not ventured to antici-
pate, abruptly brought about the realisation of his desires.
Information reached the Faubourg that Macquart had just been
killed on the frontier by a shot from a custom-house officer, at
the moment when he was endeavouring to smuggle
a cargo of Geneva watches into France. The story was true.
They did not even bring back the smuggler's bod^^, which
was interred in the cemetery of a little mountain village.
Adelaide's grief was inane. Her son, who watched her curi-
ously, did not observe her shed a single tear. Macquart had
made her sole legatee. She inherited the hovel in the Impasse
Saint-Mittre, and the carbine of the deceased, which a
smuggler, braving the balls of the custom-house officers, had
loyally brought back to her. On the following day she re-
tired to the little house, hung the carbine above the mantel-
piece, and lived there estranged from all the world, solitary
and silent.

Pierre was at last sole master at the house. The Fouques'
plot of ground belonged to him in fact, if not in law. He
never thought of establishing himself there. It was too nar-
row a field for his ambition. To till the ground and cultivate
vegetables seemed to him boorish, unworthy of his faculties.
He was in a hurry to divest himself of the peasant. His
nature, refined by his mother's nervous temperament, felt an
irresistible longing for the pleasures of the middle-classes. In
all his calculations, therefore, he had regarded the sale of the
Fouques' property as the final consummation. This sale, by
placing a round sum of money in his hands, would enable him
to marry the daughter of some merchant who would take him
into partnership. At this period the wars of the Empire were
thinning considerably the ranks of eligible young men.
Parents were not so fastidious in the choice of a son-in-law.
Pierre persuaded himself that the money would smooth all
difficulties, and that the gossip of the Faubourg would be over-
looked; he knew well how to pose as a victim, as an honest
man suffering from a famil^^ disgrace, which he deplored with-
out being tainted by it or excusing it.

For several months he had turned his attentions to the
daughter of an oil-dealer, Felicite Puech. The firm of Puech
& Lacamp, whose warehouses were in one of the darkest
lanes of the old quarter, was far from prosperous. It enjoyed
a doubtful credit in the place, and people would talk vaguely

THE FOHTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 57

of a failure. It was precisely in consequence of these evil
reports that Pierre turned his batteries in this direction. No
well-to-do trader would have given him his daughter. He
reckoned to arrive just at the moment when old Puech was at
a loss which way to turn ; he would then purchase Felicite of
him, and re-establish the credit of the house by his own energy
and intelligence. It was a clever expedient for ascending a
rung of the ladder, for raising himself a peg above his station.
Above all things, he wished to escape from that frightful Fau-
bourg, where everybody reviled his family, to bur}^ in obscurity
those foul legends, by effacing even the very name of the
Fouques' plot of ground. That is why the filthy streets of the
old quarter seemed to him a paradise. There, only, he would
change his skin.

The moment which he had been awaiting soon arrived.
The firm of Puech & Lacamp was at the last gasp. The young
man then negotiated the match with prudence and skill. He
was received, if not as a deliverer, at least as a necessary and
acceptable expedient. The marriage settled, he turned his
attention to the sale of the plot of ground. The owner of
the Jas-Meiffreu, desiring to enlarge his estate, had made him
repeated offers. A low thin party-wall alone separated the
two estates. Pierre speculated on the eagerness of his neigh-
bour, a rich man, who, to gratify his caprice, offered as much
as fifty thousand francs for the land. It was double its value.
Pierre, however, with the craftiness of a peasant, pulled a long
face and said that he did not care to sell ; that his mother would
never consent to get rid of a property where the Fouques had
lived from father to son for nearly two centuries. All the time
he appeared to hold back he was making preparations for the
sale. Certain doubts arose in his mind. According to his own
brutal logic the property belonged to him, he had the right to
dispose of it as he chose. Beneath this assurance, however,
he entertained vague presentiments of legal complications.
He determined to consult indirectly a lawyer of the Faubourg.

He learnt some fine things from him. According to the
lawyer his hands were absolutely tied. His mother alone
could alienate the property, and he doubted whether she would.
But what he did not know, what came as a heavy blow to him,
was that Ursule and Antoine, the bastards, the 3'oung wolves,
had claims on the estate. What ! those scoundrels would
despoil him, rob him, the legitimate child ! The lawyer's ex-

58 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

planations were clear and precise ; Adelaide had, it is true,
married Rougon under the system of communion of goods ;
but as all the fortune consisted of landed property, the young-
woman, according- to law, came again into possession of the
fortune at her husband's death ; on the other hand, Macquart
and Adelaide had acknowledged their children, who were ac-
cordingly entitled to inherit from their mother. For sole con-
solation, Pierre learnt that the law reduced the share of
illegitimate children in favour of lawful ones. This, how-
ever, did not console him at all. He wanted to have the
whole. He would not have . shared ten sous with Ursule
and Antoine,

This vista of the complications of the Code opened a new
horizon before him, which he scanned with a singularly
thoughtful air. He soon recognised that a shrewd man must
always keep the law on his side. And this is what he dis-
covered without consulting any one, not even the lawyer,
whose suspicions he was afraid of arousing. He knew how to
turn his mother round his finsi-er. One fine morninsf he took
her to a notary and made her sign an act of sale. Provided
they left her the hovel in the Impasse Saint- Mittre, Adelaide
would have sold Plassans. .; Besides, Pierre assured her an
annual income of six hundred francs, and made the most
solemn promises to watch over his brother and sister. This
oath satisfied the good woman. She recited, before the notary,
the lesson which it pleased her son to whisper to her. On the
following day the young man made her place her name at the
foot of a document, in which she acknowledged having re-
ceived fifty thousand francs as the price of the property. This
was his stroke of genius, the act of a rogue He contented
himself with telling his mother, who was a little surprised at
signing such a receipt when she had not seen a centime of the
fifty thousand francs, that it was a pure formality of no con-
sequence whatever. As he slipped the paper into his pocket,
he thought to himself, " Now, let the young wolves ask me
to render an account. I will tell them the old woman has
squandered everything-. They will never dare to go to law
with me about it." A week afterwards, the party-wall no
longer existed; the plough had turned up the mould of the
vegetable beds ; the Fouques' plot of ground, in accordance
with young Rougon's wish, was about to become a thing of
the past. A few months later, the owner of the Jas-Meiffren

THE FOETUNE OF THE "ROUGONS. 59

had the old house of the market-gardeners, which was falling
to pieces, pulled down.

As soon as Pierre had secured the fifty thousand francs he
married Felicite Puech without any delay beyond what was
absolutely necessary. Felicite was a little dark woman, such
as one meets with in Provence. She looked like one of those
brown, lean, noisy grasshoppers, which strike their heads against
the almond-trees with their sudden hops. Skinny, fiat-breasted,
with pointed shoulders and a face like the snout of a pole-cat
with singularly sunken and accentuated features, it ^vas not
easy to tell her age ; she looked just as much fifteen as thirty,
although she was in reality only nineteen, four years j^ounger
than her husband. The slyness of a cat was visible under her
narrow black eyes, as small as gimlet holes. The low convex
forehead, the nose slightly depressed at the root, with dilated
nostrils, delicate and quivering, as if the better to scent odours,
the thin red line of her lips, the prominent chin, united to her
cheeks by strange looking dimples, all this physiognomy of a
cunning dwarf w^as a living mask of intrigue, of active, envious
ambition. With all her ugliness, Felicite had a sort of grace-
fulness about her which rendered her seductive. People said
of her that she could be pretty or ugly as she pleased. It
would depend on the fashion in which she tied her magnificent
hair ; but it depended still more on the triumphant smile which
illumined her golden complexion when she thought to get the
better of somebody. Born under an evil star, and believing
herself ill-used by fortune, she was generally content to appear
an ugly creature. She did not, however, intend to abandon
the strjiggle, but promised herself the pleasure of making the
whole town burst with envy by the display of an insolent hap-
piness and luxury. Had she been able to act her part on a
more extensive scale where her untrammelled spirit could have
developed itself at its ease, she would certainly have quickly
realised her dream. Her intelligence was far superior to that
of the girls of her own station and education. Evil tongues
asserted that her mother, who died a few years after she was
born, had, during the early period of her married life, been over
familiar with the Marquis de Carnavant, a young nobleman of
the Saint-Marc quarter. In fact, FeKcite had the hands
and feet of a marchioness, and, in this respect, did not
appear to belong to that class of -workers from which she
was descended.

60 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

Her marriage Vs^ith. Pierre Rongon, that rongh-hewn
peasant, that man of the Faubourg, whose family was certainly
not in very good odour there, kept the old quarter in a state
of astonishment for more than a month. She let people gossip,
receiving the stiff congratulations of her friends with strange
smiles. Her calculations had been made ; she chose Rougon
for a husband as one would choose an accomplice. Her father,
in accepting the young man, looked only to the advent of the
fifty thousand francs which were going to save him from
bankruptcy. Felicite, however, was more keen-sighted. She
penetrated a long way into the future, and felt that she would
be in want of a man of robust health, even if a little rustic,
behind whom she could conceal herself, and whom she could
move at her own will. She entertained a deliberate hatred for
those insignificant little persons of the country, for that lean
herd of notaries' clerks and prospective barristers, who stand
shivering with cold while they are waiting for clients. Having
no dowry, and despairing of ever marrying a rich merchant's
son, she preferred a thousand times a peasant whom she could
jfj use as a passive tool to some meagre graduate who would o"v»er-
whelm her with his academic supe^^iority, and drag her all her
life in search of hollow vanities. / She .B:as-43£_apinion that the
woman oughiAomak^Jh^JJiaja/ She believed herself capable
of carving a mmister out of a cow-herd. She had regarded
Eougon with favour on account of his broad chest and stubby
body, which was not altogether wanting in a certain elegance.
A youth of such a build would bear with ease and sprightliness
the world of intrigues which she dreamed of placing on his
shoulders. She appreciated her husband's strength and.vigour
because she clearly perceived that he was far from being a
fool ; under his coarse flesh she had scented the cunning tricks
of his spirit ; she was, however, a long way from really
knowing her Rougon, she thought him much more stupid than
he was. A few dajs after her marriage, as she was by chance
fumbling in the drawer of a secretaire, she came across the
receipt for the fifty thousand francs signed by Adelaide. She
understood, and was rather frightened ; her own natural
mediocre honesty rendered her averse to such expedients. Her
terror, however, Avas not unmixed with admiration; Rougon
became, in her eyes, a very smart man.

This young couple set to work bravely to conquer fortune.
The firm of Puech & Lacamp was not so embarrassed as Pierre

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOITGONS. 61

thought. Their liabilities were small, they were- merely in
want of read^'-money.. In the provinces, traders adopt
measures of prudence which save them from serious disasters.
Puech & Lacamp were prudent to an excessive degree ; they
would not risk a thousand crowns without fear, so that their
house, a veritable hole, was an unimportant one. The fifty
thousand francs that Pierre brought sufficed to pay the debts
and extend the business. Their commencement was good.
For three consecutive years the harvest from their olive-trees
was an abundant one. Felicite, by a bold stroke which fright-
ened even Pierre and old Puech, made them purchase a con-
siderable quantity of oil, which they stored in their warehouse.
During the two following years, as the young woman had
foreseen, the harvest failed, and a considerable rise in price
occurred, which enabled them to realise large profits by selling
out their stock.

A short time after this haul Puech & Lacamp retired
from the firm, content with the few sous they had just
secured, and gnawed by the ambition to die men of indepen-
dent means.

The young couple, now sole masters of the business, thought
that they had at last laid the foundation of their fortune.

" You have vanquished my ill-luck," Felicite would some-
times say to her husband.

One of the rare weaknesses of her energetic nature was to
believe herself stricken by misfortune. Hitherto, she main-
tained, nothing had been successful with either herself or her
father, in spite of all their efforts. Assisted by her southern
superstition, she prepared to struggle with fate as one struggles
with a creature of flesh and blood who is endeavouring to
strangle you.

Circumstances very soon justified her apprehensions in a
singular manner. The ill-luck returned, inexorable. Every
year some fresh disaster shook Rougon's business. A bank-
ruptcy involved them in the loss of a few thousand francs ; his
estimates of the abundant harvests were falsified by the most
incredible circumstances ; the safest speculations ran aground
miserably. It was a truceless, merciless combat.

" You see I was born under an unlucky star," Felicite
would say with bitterness.

And yet she would continue to struggle furiously, not
understanding why she, who had shown such a keen scent in

62 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

his first speculations, now only succeeded in giving her hus-
band the most deplorable advice.

Pierre, dejected and less tenacious, would have liquidated
his affairs a score of times had it not been for his wife's firm
and obstinate attitude. She longed to be rich. She perceived
that her ambition could only be built up by fortune. As soon
as they possessed a few hundred thousand francs they would
be masters of the town. She would get her husband appointed
to an important post, and she would govern. It was not the
attainment of 'these honours which troubled her ; she felt her-
self marvellously well armed for that combat. But she was
powerless in th^ face of the first bags of money, which had yet
to be gained. ^/ If the ruling- of men caused her no apprehen-
sion, she at least felt a sort of impotent rage before those five-
franc pieces, mert, white and cold, over which her intriguing
spirit had no power, and which obstinately resisted her.

The battle lasted for more than thirty years. The death of
Puech was another heavy blow. Felicite, who counted upon
an inheritance of about forty thousand francs, found that the
selfish old man, in order to indulge himself in his old age, had
sunk all his money in a life annuity. It made her quite ill.
She was gradually becoming soured, she was growing more
lean and harsh. To see her, from morning to night, whirling
round the jars of oil, one would have said that she thought to
stimulate the sale by continually flitting about like a restless
fly. Her husband, on the contrary, became heavier ; misfor-
tune fattened him, making him duller and more indolent.
These thirty years of struggle did not, however, bring him to
ruin. At each annual stock-taking they managed to make both
ends meet fairly well; if they suffered any loss during one
season, they recouped themselves the next. It was this living
from hand to mouth which exasperated Felicite. She would,
by far, have preferred a big failure. They would then, perhaps,
have been able to commence life over again, instead of obsti-
nately persisting in their small way of business, working them-
selves to death to gain the bare necessaries of life. During a
third part of a century they had not saved fifty thousand francs.

It should be mentioned that, from the very first years of
their married life, they had a numerous family which became
in the long run a heavy burden to them. Felicite, like many
little women, had a fecundity which one would not have ex-
pected from a person of her meagre frame. In five years, from

/

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 63

1811 to 1815, she gave birth to three boys, one every two
years. During the four following years she was delivered of
two girls. Nothing is more conducive to procreative fertility
than the placid, animal life of the country. The two last comers
had but an indifferent welcome ; daughters are a terrible em-
barrassment when one has no dowry to give them. Rougon
declared, to whomsoever, would listen, that he had enough, that
the devil would have to be pretty sharp to send him a sixth
child. It fact, Felicite did not go any further. It is doubtful
at what figure she would herself have stopped.

The young woman, however, did not regard this troop of
brats as the cause of their ruin. On the contrary, she recon-
structed on her sons' heads the fortune which was crumbling
in her own hands. They were hardly ten years old before she
discounted in her dreams their future careers. Doubting
whether she w^ould ever succeed herself, she centred in them
all her hopes of overcoming the animosity of fate. They would
satisfy her disappointed vanities, they would give her that
wealthy, honourable position which she had hitherto pursued
in vain. From that time forward, without abandoning the
struggle sustained by the business, she conceived a second
plan to obtain the gratification of her domineering instincts.
It seemed to her impossible that, amongst her three sons, there
should not be a man of superior intellect, who would enrich
them all. She felt it, she said. Accordingly, she nursed the
brats with a fervour in which the severity of a mother was
blended with the solicitude of a usurer. She amused herself
by fattening them lovingly, as though they constituted a
capital which would later on return a large interest.

" Enough ! " Pierre would sometimes exclaim, " all children
are ungrateful. You are spoiling them, you are ruining us."

When Felicite spoke of sending them to college, he got
angry. Latin was a useless luxury, it would be quite sufiicient
if they went through the classes of a little neighbouring school.
The young woman, however, persisted. She possessed certain
•elevated instincts which made her take a great pride in sur- ^
rounding herself with accomplished children ; moreover, she
felt that she could never allow her sons to remain as illiterate as
her husband, if she wished to see them one day prominent men.
She fancied them all three at Paris in high positions, which,
however, she did not clearly define. When Rougon consented
and the three youngsters had entered the eighth class, Felicite

/

64 THE POETUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

felt the most lively satisfaction she had ever experienced. She
listened with delight as they talked of their professors and their
studies. When she heard her eldest son make one of his
brothers decline JRosa^ it sounded like the most delicious
music to her. It is only fair to add that her joy was unmixed
■witt any sordid calculations. Even Rougon felt the satisfac-
tion of an illiterate man perceiving" his sons growing wiser than
himself. The fellowship which naturally grew up between
their sons and those of the big-wigs of the town completed the
parents' gratification. The youngsters were on familiar terms
with the sons of the mayor and the sub-prefect, and even with
two or three young gentlemen whom the Saint-Marc quarter
had deigned to send to the Plassans college. Felicite was at
a loss how to repay such an honour. The education of the
three lads seriously encumbered the budget of the Rougon
household.

Until the boj^s had taken their degrees, their parents, who
kept them at college at enormous sacrifices, lived in hopes of
their success ; and even when they had obtained their diplomas
Felicite wished to continue her work, and persuaded her hus-
band to send the three to Paris. Two of them devoted them-
selves to the study of law, and the third passed through the
course of the School of Medicine. Then, when they were men,
w^ien they had exhausted the resources of the Rougon family
and were obliged to return and establish themselves in the pro-
vinces, the disenchantment of the poor parents commenced.
The country seemed to reconquer its prey. The three young
men idled about and grew fat. The bitterness of her ill-luck
again assailed Felicite. Her sons were making her a bankrupt.
They had ruined her, they did not return any interest on the
capital which they represented. This last blow of fate was the
heaviest, as it struck at the same time her ambitions and her
maternal vanity. Rougon repeated to her from morning till
night " I told 3^ou so ! " which only exasperated her all the more.

One day, as she was bitterly reproaching her eldest son with
the large amount of money expended on his education, he said
to her with equal bitterness : '^ I will repay you later on if I
can. But as you had no means, you should have brought us
up to a trade. We are out of our element, we are suffering
more than you."

Felicite understood the wisdom of these words. From that
time she ceased to accuse her children, and turned her anger

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 65

against fate, which never wearied of striking her. She re-
opened her grievances, and commenced to bemoan more and
more the want of means which made her strand, as it were, in
port When Kougon used to say to her, " Your sons are lazy
fellows, they will eat up all we have," she would sourly
reply, "Would to God I had more money to give them; if
they do vegetate, poor fellows, it's because they haven't got a
sou to bless themselves with."

At the beginning of the year 1848, on the eve of the
Revolution of February, the three young Rougons held very
precarious positions at Plassans. They presented most curious
types, profoundly dissimilar, although they were descended
parallelly from the same stock. They were in reality superior
to their parents. The race of the Rougons was destined to
become refined through its female side. Adelaide had made
Pierre a man of moderate enterprise, disposed to low ambitions ;
Felicite had inspired her sons with a higher intelligence, with
a capacity for greater vices and greater virtues.

By this time the eldest, Eugene, was nearly forty years old.
He was a man of middle height, slightly bald, and already dis-
posed to obesit3^ He had his father's face, a long face with
broad features ; beneath his skin one could perceive that fat-
ness which produced the soft roundness of his features, and
gave to his face the yellowish whiteness of wax. Though his
massive square head betokened the peasant, his physiognomy
was transfigured, lit up from within as U were, when, raising
his drooping eyelids, he darted a glance from his eyes. In the
son's case, the father's ponderousness had turned to gravity.
This big fellow usually exhibited a formidable, sleepy attitude.
From his heavy, languid movements one would have thought
he was a giant stretching his limbs for action. By one of those
alleged freaks of nature, of which, however, science is now
commencing to discover the laws, the physical resemblance to
Pierre was complete in Eugene, while Felicite seemed to have
furnished him with the thinking substance. Eugene offered a
curious case of certain moral and intellectual qualities inherited
from the mother being imbedded in the coarse flesh of the
father. He cherished lofty ambitions, possessed domineering
instincts, and showed a singular contempt for trifling expedients
and small fortunes.

He was a proof that Plassans perhaps was not mistaken in
suspecting that Felicite had some blue blood in her veins. The

66 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

passion for indulgence, which received a formidable develop-
ment in the Rougons, and which was, in fact, the family
characteristic, attained in his case its highest pitch ; he longed
for self-indulgence, but through the pleasures of the mind
which would gratify his burning desire for domination. A
man such as this was never intended to succeed in a provincial
town. He vegetated there for fifteen years, his eyes turned
towards Paris, watching his opportunities. On his return to
his little town, he had caused his name to be entered on the
rolls, in order to be independent of his parents. He pleaded
from time to time, earning a bare livelihood, without appearing
to raise himself above an honest mediocrity. At Plassans his
voice was considered thick, his movements heavy. He seldom
succeeded in gaining a case for a client. He generally wan-
dered from the question at issue, rambled, as the learned people
of the place expressed it.

On one occasion particularly, when he was pleading in a
case for damages, he forgot himself and strayed into apolitical
disquisition. So much so that the President had to cut him
short; whereupon he sat down immediately with a strange
smile. His client was condemned to pay a considerable sum
of money, a circumstance which did not, however, seem to
cause Eugene the least regret for his irrelevant digression.
He appeared to regard his speeches as mere exercises which
would be of use to him later on. It was this that puzzled and
disheartened Felicite. She would have liked to see her son
dictating the law to the Civil Tribunal of Plassans. At last
she came to entertain a very unfavourable opinion of her first-
born. To her mind this lazy fellow could not be he who would
shed a lustre on the family. Pierre, on the contrary, had ab-
solute confidence in him, not that he was more penetrating than
his wife, but because external appearances were sufficient for
him, and he was flattering himself, as it were, by confidently
believing in the genius of a son who was his living image. A
month prior to the events of February, Eugene became rest-
less ; a special inspiration made him anticipate the crisis.
From that time he seemed to feel out of his element at Plassans.
He would wander about the streets like an oppressed soul. At
last he formed a sudden resolution and left for Paris, with
scarcely five hundred francs in his pocket.

Aristide, the youngest son, was, so to speak, diametrically
opposed to Eugene. He had his mother's face, and a covetous-

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 67

ness and slyness of character adapted to trivial intrigues, in
which his father's instincts predominated. Nature often feels
the want of symmetry Short, with a pitiful countenance like
the knob of a stick curiously carved into a Punch's head,
Aristide ferreted and fumbled everywhere, without any
scruples, eager only to gratify himself He loved money as
his eldest brother loved power. While Eugene dreamed of
bending a people to his will, and inebriated himself with visions
of his future omnipotence, the other fancied himself ten times
a millionaire, domiciled in a princely abode, eating and drink-
ing to his heart's content, and gratifying the cravings of all
his sensual and organic appetites. Above all things, he longed
to make a rapid fortune. AVhen he was constructing his
castles in the air, they would rise in his mind as if by magic ;
he would become possessed of tons of gold in one night.
These visions consorted best with his indolence, as he never
troubled himself about the means, considering those the best
which were the most expeditious. The race of the Rougons,
of those coarse, greedy peasants with brute appetites, had
matured too rapidly ; all the desires for material indulgence
were centred in Aristide, augmented threefold by a precocious
education, and rendered more insatiable and dangerous by
their deliberateness. In spite of her delicate, effeminate intui-
tion, Felicite preferred this son ; she did not perceive the
greater affinity subsisting between herself and Eugene ; she
excused the follies and indolence of her youngest son under
the pretext that he would some day be the superior genius of
the family, and that such a man is entitled to live a disordered
life until the time comes when his intellectual forces reveal
themselves.

Aristide subjected his powers of self-indulgence to a rude
test. At Paris he led a low, idle life ; he was one of those
students who enter their names for the terms at the taverns of
the Quartier Latin. He did not remain there, however, more
than two years ; his father, growing apprehensive, and seeing
that he had not yet passed a single examination, kept him at
Plassans and spoke of finding a wife for him, hoping that
domestic cares would make him more steady. Aristide sub-
mitted to be married.

He had not a very clear idea of his own ambitions at this
time ; life in the country did not displease him ; he was batten-
ing in his little town — eating, sleeping, and sauntering about.

G8 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

Felicite pleaded his cause so earnestly that Pierre consented
to board and lodge the newly-married couple, on condition
that the young man should turn his attention to business.
From this time he led a life of ease and idleness. He spent
his days and the best part of his nights at the club, slipping
out of his father's office like a schoolboy to go and gamble
away the few louis that his mother gave him clandestinely.

It is necessary to have lived in the heart of a department
to form a conception of the four years of sottishness which the
fellow spent in this fashion. In every little town there is a
group of individuals w^ho thus live upon their parents, pre-
tending sometimes to work, but really cultivating idleness
with a sort of religious zeal. Aristide was the type of these
incorrigible drones, w^ho may be seen slouching about with
that lazy inanity which is so characteristic of country life. For
four 3^ears he did nothing but play ecarte. While he passed
his time at the club, his wife, a fair-complexioned, inanimate-
looking w^oman, helped to ruin the firm of Rougon by her in-
ordinate love of showy dressing and her formidable appetite,
a rather remarkable peculiarity in such a frail creature.
Angele adored sky-blue ribbons and roast beef. She was the
daughter of a retired captain, called Commander Sicardot, a
good-hearted old gentleman, who had given her a dowry of
ten thousand francs — all his savings. Pierre, in selecting
Angele for his son, considered that he had made an unexpected
bargain, so little did he esteem Aristide. This dowry of ten
thousand francs, which determined his choice, ultimately
became a millstone round his neck. His son was already a
cunning rogue, and deposited the ten thousand francs with his
father, with w^hom he entered into partnership. He refused,
with the most sincere professions of devotion, to keep a single
sou.

" We have no need of anything," he said ; " 3'ou will keep
my wife and myself, and we will reckon up later on."

Pierre was in straitened circumstances, and accepted, not,
however, without some uneasiness at Aristide's disinterested-
nesa The latter calculated that it would be years before his
father would have ten thousand francs ready money to repay
him, so that he and his wife w^ould live largely at his father's
expense so long as the partnership could not be dissolved. It
was an admirable investment for his few bank-notes. When
the oil-dealer recognised what a foolish bargain he had made

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. G9

he was not in a position to rid himself of Aristide ; Ang-ele's
dowry was involved in speculations which were turning- out
unfavourably. He was exasperated, stung" to the heart, at
having to feed his daughter-in-law's enormous appetite and
keep his son in idleness. Had he been able to buy out their
interest in the business he would twenty times over have
turned out this vermin that was sucking his blood, as he em-
phatically expressed it. Felicite secretly defended them ; the
young" man, who had penetrated her dreams of ambition, used
to describe to her every evening the most elaborate plans by
which he would very shortly realise a fortune. By a rare
chance she remained on excellent terms with her daughter-in-
law. It must be confessed that Angele had no will of her
own — she could be moved like a piece of furniture, Pierre
fell into a rage when his wife spoke to him of the success their
youngest son would ultimately achieve ; he declared that he
would really bring their house to ruin.

During the four years the young couple lived with him
he stormed in this manner, wasting his impotent rage in quar-
rels, without in the least disturbing the smiling equanimity of
Aristide and Angele. They were located there, and there they
intended to remain like blocks of wood. At last Pierre had a
stroke of luck which enabled him to return the ten thousand
francs to his son. When he wanted to reckon up accounts
with him Aristide interposed so much chicanery that he had
to let them go without deducting a sou for their board and
lodging. They went and lived a little way off, in a part of
the old quarter called the Place Saint-Louis. The ten thousand
francs were soon consumed. They had everything to get for
their new home. Aristide, moreover, did not change his mode
of living as long as there was any monej^ in the house. When
he had reached his last hundred-franc note he felt rather ner-
vous. He was seen prowling about the town in a suspicious
manner. He no longer took his customary cup of coffee at the
club ; he watched feverishly whilst play was going on, with-
out touching a card. Poverty made him more wretched than
he really was. He bore the blow for a long time, obstinately
refusing to do anything to avert the calamity.

In 1840 he had a son, little Maxime, whom his grand-
mother Felicite fortunately sent to college, paying his fees
clandestinely. That made one mouth less at home ; but poor
Angele was dying of hunger; her husband was at last com-

70 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

pelled to seek a situation. He procured a place at the Sub-
Prefecture. He remained there nearly ten years, and only
reached a salary of eighteen hundred francs. From that time
forward, he longed, with ever increasing malevolence and
rancour, for those enjoyments of which he was deprived. His
lowly position exasperated him ; the miserable hundred and
fifty francs which he received every month seemed to him an
irony of fate. Never did man burn with such desire for
sensual gratification. Felicite, to whom he imparted his suffer-
ings, was by no means grieved to see him so eager. She
thought his misery would stimulate his energies. Lying in
wait, with his ears open, he commenced to look about like a
thief seeking a job. In the beginning of 1848, when his
brother left for Paris, he had a faint idea of following him.
But Eugene was a bachelor, whilst he could not take his wife
so far with him without any money in his pocket. He waited,
scenting a catastrophe, and prepared to strangle the fii^st prey
that fell in his way.

The other son, Pascal, who came between Eugene and
Aristide, did not appear to belong to the family. His was one
of those frequent cases which contradict the laws of heredity.
Nature often produces, in the middle of a race, one being in
whom she amalgamates all the elements of her procreative
forces. Nothing in the moral or phj^sical constitution of
Pascal recalled the Pougons. Tall, with a smooth, stern-
looking face, he had an uprightness of spirit, a love of study,
a retiring modesty which contrasted strangely with the
feverish ambitions and unscrupulous intrigues of his family.
After having acquitted himself admirably in his medical
studies at Paris, he retired, by preference, to Plassans,
notwithstanding the offers he received from his professors.
He loved a quiet country life ; he maintained that for
a studious man such a life was preferable to the excitement of
Paris. Even at Plassans he did not exert himself to extend his
practice. Very steady, and despising fortune, he contented
himself with the few patients sent to him by chance. All his
pleasures were concentrated in a pretty little house in the new
town, where he kept himself religiously shut up, devoting his
time with a real love to the study of natural history. He
was particularly fond of physiology. It was known in the
town that he frequently purchased dead bodies from the grave-
digger of the hospital, a circumstance which rendered him an

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 71

object of horror to delicate ladies and certain timid gentlemen.
Fortunately they did not actually look upon him as a sorcerer ;
but his practice diminished, he was regarded as an original
character, to whom people of good society ought not to entrust
even the tip of their finger, for fear of being compromised. The
mayor's wife was one day heard to say :

" I would sooner die than be attended by that gentleman.
He smells of death."

From that time, Pascal was condemned. He seemed to re-
joice at this mute terror which he inspired. The fewer patients he
had, the more time he could devote to his favourite sciences. As
his fees were very moderate, the poorer people remained faithful
to him ; he earned just enough to live, and lived contentedly,
a thousand leagues away from the rest of the country, ab-
sorbed in the pure delight of his researches and discoveries.
From time to time he sent a memoir to the Academic des
Sciences at Paris. Plassans did not know that this original
character, this gentleman who smelt of death, was well-known
and highly-esteemed in the world of learning. When people saw
him starting, on Sunday, for an excursion among the Garrigues
hills, with a botanist's bag hung round his neck and a geologist's
hammer in his hand, they would shrug their shoulders, institut-
ing a comparison between him and some other doctor of the
town who was noted for his smart cravat, his affability to the
ladies, and his splendid clothes, ever emitting a delicious
odour of violet. Pascal's parents did not understand him any
better than other people. AYhen Felicite saw him adopting
such a strange, unpretentious mode of life she was stupe-
fied, and reproached him for disappointing her hopes. She,
who tolerated Aristide's idleness because she thought it
would prove fertile, could not view without regret the
slow progress of Pascal, his love of obscurity and contempt
for riches, his determined resolve to lead a life of retirement.
He was certainly not the child who would ever gratify her
vanities.

"But where do you spring from?" she would sometimes
say to him. " You are not one of us. Look at your brothers,
how they keep their eyes open, striving to profit by the educa-
tion we have given them, while you waste your time on follies
and trifles. You make a very poor return to us who have
ruined ourselves for your education. No, you are certainly
not one of us."

72 THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

Pascal, who preferred to laugh whenever he had to feel
annoyed, replied cheerfully, but not without a sting- of irony :

" Oh, you need not be frightened, I shall never drive you
to the verge of bankruptcy ; when any of you are ill, I will
attend you for nothing."

Moreover, though he never displayed any repugnance to
his family, he very rarely saw them, following his instincts as
against his natural inclinations. Before Aristide obtained a
situation at the Sub-Prefecture, Pascal frequently came to his
assistance. He had remained a bachelor. He had not the
least suspicion of the grave events that were preparing. For
two or three years he had been devoting himself to the study
of the grand problem of heredity, comparing the human and
animal races together, and was deeply absorbed in the strange
results which he obtained. The observations which he had
made in respect of himself and his family had been, as it were,
the point of departure for his studies. The common people
recognised so well, with a sort of unconscious intuition, that
he was something quite different to the other Rougons, that
they used to call him Monsieur Pascal, without ever adding
his family name.

Three years prior to the revolution of 1848 Pierre and
Felicite retired from business. Old age was coming on apace ;
they were both past fifty and were weary of the struggle. In
the face of their ill fortune, they were afraid of being ultimately
ruined if they obstinately persisted. Their sons, by disap-
pointing their expectations, had struck the final blow. Now
that they despaired of ever being enriched by them, they were
anxious to make some provision at least for old age. They
retired with forty thousand francs at the very most. This sum
provided an annual income of two thousand francs, just
sufficient to live in a small way in the provinces. Fortunately
they were alone, having succeeded in marrying their daughters
Marthe and Sidonie, the former residing at Marseilles and the
latter at Paris.

They would have liked very much, after liquidating their
affairs, to take up their abode in the new town, the quarter of
the retired traders, but they could not risk it. Their income
was too small ; they were afraid that they would cut but a
poor figure there. As a sort of compromise, they took apart-
ments in the Rue de la Banne, the street which separates the
old quarter from the new one. As their abode was in that row

THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 73

of houses which borders the old quarter, they still lived among*
the common people ; nevertheless they could ' see from their
windows the town of the richer classes, so that they were just
on the threshold of the promised land.

Their apartments, situated on the second floor, consisted of
three larg-e rooms, a dining"-room, a drawing-room, and a bed-
room. The first floor was occupied by the owner, a stick and
umbrella manufacturer, who had a shop on the ground floor.
The house, which was narrow and not very deep, had only two
storeys. Felicite moved in with a bitter pang" of regret. In
the countr}^, to live in another person's house is an avowal of
poverty. Every family of position at Plassans has a house of
its own, landed property being very cheap there. Pierre kept
the purse-strings tied ; he would not hear of any embellish-
ments. The old furniture, faded, worn-out, and damaged, had
to do without even being repaired. Felicite, however, who
keenly felt the necessity for this parsimony, exerted herself to
give a fresh polish to all these wrecks ; she herself knocked
nails into some of the furniture which was more dilapidated
than the rest, and darned the frayed velvet of the arm-chairs.

The dining-room, which, like the kitchen, was at the back,
was nearly bare ; a table and a dozen chairs were lost in
the darkness of this large apartment, the window of which
opened on to the grey wall of a neighbouring house. As
nobody ever went into the bed-room, Felicite had stowed all
the useless furniture there; besides a bedstead, a wardrobe,
a secretaire, and a wash-stand, there were two cradles
put one on top of the other, a sideboard the doors of which
were missing, and a book-case quite empty, venerable ruins
which the old woman could. not make up her mind to part with.
But all her cares were bestowed upon the drawing-room. She
almost succeeded in making it comfortable and decent. The
furniture was covered with yellowish velvet with satin flowers;
in the middle stood a round table with a marble top, while
console-tables, surmounted with mirrors, were placed at the
two ends of the room. There was even a carpet, which only
covered the middle of the floor, and a lustre adorned with a
covering of white muslin, which the flies had spotted with black
specks. . On the walls were hung six lithographs representing
the great battles of Napoleon. This furniture dated from the
first years of the Empire. The only embellishment Felicite
could obtain was to have the walls hung with an orange-

74 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

coloured paper figured with large flowers. The drawing-room
thus wore a strange, yellow hue, which filled it with an artificial
dazzling light. The furniture, the paper, and the window
curtains were yellow ; the carpet and even the marble tops of
the round table and of the consoles had a touch of yellow.
When the curtains were drawn, the colours harmonised fairly
well and the drawing-room looked decent.

But Felicite had dreamed of quite a different kind of luxury.
She regarded with mute despair this ill-concealed misery. She
usually sat in the drawing-room, the best apartment in the
house. One of her distractions, at the same time the sweetest
and the bitterest, was to sit at one of the windows of this room,
which looked upon the Rue de la Banne and from which she
obtained a side view of the Place in front of the Sub-Prefecture.
That was the paradise of her dreams. This little, neat, and
tidy spot, with its bright houses, seemed to her a Garden of
Eden. She would have given ten j^ears of her life to possess
one of those habitations. The house forming the left-hand
corner, in which the receiver of taxes resided, was a particu-
larly strong temptation to her. She contemplated it with the
eager longing of a pregnant woman. Sometimes, when the
windows of this abode were open, she could catch a glimpse of
richly furnished recesses, and other little views of tasteful
elegance which made her burn with envy.

At this period the Rougons were passing through a curious
crisis of vanity and unsatiated appetites. The few proper
feelings which they did once entertain were becoming ex-
hausted. They posed as victims of evil fortune, not with
resignation, but with the bitter determination not to die until
they had satisfied their ambitions. In reality, they did not
abandon any of their hopes, notwithstanding their advanced
age. Felicite professed to feel a presentiment that she would
die rich. But each day of poverty weighed them down the
more. When they recapitulated their vain attempts — when
they recalled their thirty years' struggle, and the defections of
their children — when they saw their airy castles converted
into this yellow drawing-room, the shabbiness of which had to
be concealed behind the drawn curtains, they were consumed
with bitter rage. Then, as a consolation, they would devise
plans for making a colossal fortune, seeking all sorts of com-
binations. Felicite would fancy herself the winner of the
grand prize of a hundred thousand francs in a lottery, while

THE FOETUKE OF THE EOUGONS. 75

Pierre saw himself alighting upon some wonderful speculation.
They lived in one sole thought — to make a fortune immediately,
in a few hours — to be rich and enjoy themselves, if only for a
year. Their whole existence aimed at this end, with the
stubbornness of an animal. They still cherished some faint
hopes with regard to their sons, with that peculiar egotism of
parents who cannot bear to think that they have sent their
children to college without deriving some personal advantage
from it.

Felicite did not appear to have aged, she was still the same
little dark woman, restless and buzzing about like a grass-
hopper. Any person walking behind her on the pavement
would have thought her a young girl of fifteen summers
from the lightness of her step and the angularity of her
shoulders and waist Her face had scarcely undergone any
change, it was simply a little more sunken, assuming more and
more a resemblance to the snout of a pole-cat. One would
have said it was the head of a little girl, which had become
dry and sallow without any alteration of features.

As for Pierre Rougon, he had grown corpulent, and
had become a highly respectable citizen who only lacked a
decent income to make him a very dignified individual. His
pale, clammy complexion, his heaviness, his languid manner,
seemed to savour of wealth. He had one day heard a peasant,
who did not know him, say : " Ah ! he's some rich fellow, that
fat old gentleman there. He's no cause to worry about his
dinner ! " A reflection which stung him to the heart, for he
considered it a cruel mockery to be a poor devil while possess-
ing the corpulence and weight of a millionaire. When he
shaved on Sunday in front of a small five-sou looking-glass
hanging from the fastening of a window, he would think to
himself how much better he would look at the Sub-Prefecture,
in a dress-coat and white necktie, than such or such a function-
ary of Plassans. This peasant's son, grown sallow from
business worries, and corpulent from a sedentary life, whose
hateful passions were hidden under the natural placidity of
his features, really had that air of solemn inanity and imbecility
which gives a man an official appearance. People imagined
that his wife held a rod over him, but they were mistaken.
He was as self-willed as a brute. Any determined
expression of extraneous will would drive him into a
violent ragfe. Felicite was too docile to thwart him ;

76 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

the fluttering, lively nature of that dwarf had no intention
of running her head against a post. When she wished to
obtain something from her husband, or drive him the way she
thought best, she would buzz round him in her grasshopper
fashion, stinging him on all sides, and returning to the charge
a hundred times until he yielded almost unconsciously. He
felt, moreover, that she was wiser than he, and tolerated her
advice with moderate patience. ,. Felicite, more useful than the
coachman's fly, would sometimes do all the work while she
was buzzing round Pierre's ears. Strange to say, the husband
and viUe never accused each other of their ill-success. The
only bone of contention was the education lavished on their
children.

The revolution of 1848 found all the Rougons on the look-
out, exasperated by their bad luck, and disposed to lay violent
hands on fortune if ever they should meet her in a by-way.
They were a family of bandits lying in wait, ready to rifle and
plunder events. Eugene kept an eye on Paris; Aristide
dreamed of strangling Plassans ; the mother and father,
probably the most eager of the lot, reckoned to work on their
own account, and to derive some additional advantage from
their sons' doings. Pascal alone, that discreet wooer of science,
led the happy, indifferent life of a lover in his little bright
house in the new town.

77

CHAPTER III.

At Plassans, that immured town in which the distinction of
classes was so clearly marked in 1848, the commotion caused
by the political events was very slig-ht. Even at the present
day the popular voice is* stifled there ; the middle classes
bring- their prudence to bear, the nobility their mute despair,
and the clerg-y their shrewd cunning-. Kings may usurp
thrones, or republics be established, with scarcely causing a
slight commotion in the town. Plassans is asleep while Paris
is fighting-. But though on the surface the town ma}' appear
calm and indifferent, there is a hidden work going on under-
neath affording matter for strange reflection. Though shots
are rare in the streets, intrigues are filling the drawing-rooms
of the new town and the Saint-Marc quarter. Until the year
1830, the people were reckoned of no account. Even at the
present day they are similarly ignored. Everything is settled
between the clergy, the nobility, and the gentry. The priests,
who are very numerous, prescribe the political colours of the
place ; they constitute, as it were, the subterranean mines and
the blows in the dark, adopting a prudent, timorous system,
which hardly effects a single step in advance or retreat in the
space of ten years. These secret intrigues of men who desire
above all things to avoid a disturbance require a special
shrewdness, an aptitude for small matters, and the endurance
of persons callous to all passions. It is thus that the provincial
dilatoriness, which is so freely ridiculed at Paris, is full of
treachery, of secret butcher}^ of hidden victories and defeats.
These worthy men, particularly when their interests are at
stake, kill at home with a snap of the finger, as we kill with a
cannon in the public thoroughfare.

The political history of Plassans, like that of all little towns
in Provence, is singularly characteristic. Until 1830, the
inhabitants remained observant Catholics and fervent roj^alists ;
even the lower classes would swear only by God and their
legitimate sovereigns. Then there came a sudden change ;

78 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

faith departed, the working- and middle classes deserted the
cause of legitimacy, and gradually espoused the great demo-
cratic movement of our time. When the revolution of 1848
broke out, the nobility and the clergy were left alone to labour
for the triumph of Henri V. For a long time they regarded
the accession of the Orleanists as a ridiculous experiment,
which sooner or later would bring back the Bourbons ; although
their hopes were singularly shaken, they nevertheless continued
the struggle, scandalised by the defection of their former
allies, whom they strove to win back to their cause. The Saint-
Marc quarter, assisted by all the parish priests, set to work.
Among the middle classes, and especially among the people,
the enthusiasm was very great on the morrow of the events of
February ; these republican apprentices were in haste to ex-
pend their revolutionary fever. For the gentry of the new
town, however, this conflagration had the brilliancy and dura-
tion of a straw fire. The small landlords and the retired
tradespeople who had had their good days, or had made a
round little fortune under the monarchy, were soon seized
with panic ; the Republic, with its constant shocks and con-
vulsions, made them tremble for their money and their own
selfish existence.

Consequently, when the clerical reaction of 1849 was pro-
claimed, nearly all the middle classes passed over to the Con-
servative party. They were received with open arms. The
new town had never had such close relations with the Saint-
Marc quarter : some of the nobility even went so far as to
shake hands with the lawyers and retired oil-dealers. This
unexpected familiarity kindled the enthusiasm of the new
quarter, which henceforward waged a bitter warfare against
the republican government. To bring about such a coalition,
the clergy had to display marvellous skill and endurance.
The nobility of Plassans were for the most part plunged, like
a moribund, into an invincible prostration. They remained
faithful, but they were seized by the lethargy of earth, and
preferred to remain inactive, allowing the heavens to work
their will. They would gladly have had their solitary silence
interpreted as a protest, feeling, perhaps, a vague presentiment
that their divinities were dead, and that there was nothing for
them to do but go and rejoin them. Even at this period of
confusion, when the catastrophe of 1848 gave them a momentary
hope of the return of the Bourbons, they manifested a torpid

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 79

indifference, speaking of rushing" into the melee, althoug-h they
could never leave their hearths without a pang of regret.

The clergy combated indefatigably this feeling of impotence
and resignation. They infused a kind of passion into their
work : a priest, when he is in despair, struggles all the more
fiercely. The fundamental policy of the Church is to march
straight forward, even though she may have to postpone the
accomplishment of her projects for several centuries ; she never
wastes a single hour, but is always pushing forward with
increasing energy. It was the clergy, therefore, who led the
reaction of Plassans ; the nobility only lent them their name,
nothing more. They concealed themselves behind the nobility,
restrained them, directed them, and even succeeded in makino-
them lead a factious life. When they had induced them to
overcome their repugnance so far as to make common cause
with the middle classes, they believed themselves certain of
victory. The country w^as marvellously well prepared. This
ancient royalist town, this population of peaceful householders
and timorous tradespeople, were destined to range, sooner or
later, on the side of law and order. The clergy, by their tactics,
hastened the conversion. After gaining the landlords of the
new town to their side, they succeeded in conquering the little
retail- dealers of the old quarter. From that time the reac-
tionary movement obtained complete possession of the town.
All opinions were represented in this reaction ; such a mixture
of embittered Liberals, Legitimists, Orleanists, Bonapartists,
and Clericals was never seen before. It mattered little, how-
ever, at this time. The sole object was to kill the Republic ;
and the Republic was at the point of death. A fraction of the
people — a thousand workmen at most, out of the ten thousand
souls in the town — still saluted the tree of liberty planted in
the middle of the Place in front of the Sub-Prefecture.

The shrewdest politicians of Plassans, who led the reac-
tionary movement, did not scent the Empire until very much
later. The prince himself only inspired them with a moderate
admiration. They reckoned him a nonentity, a dreamer, in-
capable of laying hands on France, and especially of maintain-
ing his authority. To them he was only a tool whom they
could make use of, who would clear their way, and whom they
would turn out as soon as the hour arrived for the rightful
claimant to show himself. In the meantime, months elapsed
and they became uneas}*. It was only then that they vaguely

80 THE FOETUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

perceived they were being- duped : they had no time, however,
to take any steps ; the Coup d'Etat burst over their heads, and
they were compelled to applaud. That great abomination, the
Republic, had been assassinated ; that, at least, was some sort
of triumph. The clerg-y and the nobility accepted accomplished
facts with resignation ; postponing, until later, the realisation
of their hopes, and making amends for their miscalculations by
uniting with the Bonapartists for the purpose of crushing the
last Republicans.

These events laid the foundation of the Rougons' fortune.
Mixed up with the various phases of the crisis, they rose on
the ruins of liberty. These bandits had been lying in wait to
rob the Republic ; as soon as it had been strangled, they
assisted in plundering it.

After the events of February, Felicite, who had the keenest
scent of the family, perceived that they w^ere at last on the
right track. She commenced to flutter round her husband,
goading him on to bestir himself. The first rumours of the
revolution had terrified Pierre. When his wife, however,
had made him understand that they had little to lose and
much to gain from a convulsion, he soon came round to her
way c' thinking.

" I don't know what you can do," Felicite repeatedly said,
" but it seems to me there's plisnty to be done. Did not
Monsieur de Carnavant say to us one day that he would be
rich if ever Henri V should return, and that this sovereign
would magnificently recompense those who had worked for his
return? Perhaps our fortune lies there. We may yet be lucky."

The Marquis de Carnavant, that nobleman who, according to
the scandalous talk of the town, had had intimate relations with
Felicite's mother, used to visit the married couple occasionally.
Evil tongues asserted that Madame Rougon resembled him.
He was a little, lean, active man, seventy-five years old at that
time, and she certainly appeared to be taking his features and
manner as she grew older. It was said that the wreck of his
fortune, from which a big slice had already been cut by his
father at the time of his emigration, had been squandered on
women. Indeed, he cheerfully acknowledged his poverty.
Brought up by one of his relations, the Count de Yalqueyras,
he lived the life of a parasite, eating at the count's table and
occupying a small apartment under his roof.

" Little one," he would often say to Felicite, as he patted

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 81

her on the cheek, "if ever Henri V gives me a fortune, I will
make you my heiress ! "

He still called Felicite "little one," even when she was
fifty years old. It was of these friendly pats, of these repeated
promises of an inheritance, that Madame Rougon was thinking
when she endeavoured to drive her husband into politics. Mon-
sieur de Carnavant had often bitterly lamented his inability to
render her any assistance. No doubt he would treat her like
a father if ever he should acquire some influence. Pierre, to
whom his wife half explained the situation in veiled terms,
declared his readiness to move in any direction indicated.

The marquis's peculiar position qualified him for an ener-
getic agent of the reactionary movement at Plassans from
the first days of the Republic. This busy little man, who had
everything to gain from the return of his legitimate sovereigns,
worked assiduously for their cause. AVhile the wealthy
nobility of the Saint-Marc quarter were slumbering in mute
despair, fearing perhaps to compromise themselves and again
be condemned to exile, he multiplied himself, as it were, spread
the propaganda and rallied the faithful. He was a weapon
whose handle was held by an invisible hand. From that time
forward he paid daily visits to the Rougons. He required a
centre of operations. His relative, Monsieur de Valqueyras,
having prohibited him from bringing any of his associates into
his house, he had chosen Felicite's yellow drawing-room.
Moreover, he very soon found Pierre a valuable aid. He could
not go himself and preach the cause of Legitimacy to the petty
traders and workmen of the old quarter ; the}'' would have
hooted him. Pierre, on the other hand, who had lived amongst
these people, spoke their language and knew their wants, was
able to catechise them in a friendly way. He thus became an
indispensable man. In less than a fortnight the Rougons were
more determined royalists than the king himself. The marquis,
perceiving Pierre's zeal, had shrewdly sheltered himself behind
him. What was the use of making himself conspicuous, when
a man with broad shoulders was willing to bear upon them the
burden of all the follies of a party.? He allovred Pierre to
reigu, to swell himself with importance, to speak with authority,
content to restrain him or urge him on, according to the
necessities of the cause. Accordingly, the old oil-dealer soon
became an important personage. In the evening, when they
were alone, Felicite used to say to him ;

82 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

<' Go on, don't be frightened. We're on the right track.
If this continues we shall be rich ; we shall have a drawing-
room like the tax-receiver's, and we can give parties."

A nucleus of conservatives had been formed at the Rougons'
house, where meetings were held every evening in the yellow
drawing-room to declaim against the Republic.

There were three or four retired merchants who trembled
for their money, and clamoured with all their might for a wise
and strong government. An old almond-dealer, a member
of the Municipal Council, Monsieur Isidore Granoux, was the
head of this group. His hare-like mouth, cloven a little way
from the nose, his round eyes, his air of mingled satisfaction
and astonishment, made him resemble a fat goose whose
digestion is attended by a wholesome terror of the cook. He
spoke little, having but little command of words; he only
pricked up his ears when any one accused the republicans of
wishing to pillage the houses of the rich ; then he would colour
up to such a degree as to give rise to apprehensions of an
approaching apoplectic fit, muttering at the same time low
imprecations, in which the words "idlers," "scoundrels,*'
*' thieves," " assassins," frequently recurred.

All those who frequented the yellow drawing-room were
not, however, as cross as this fat goose. A rich landlord.
Monsieur Roudier, with a plump, insinuating face, used to dis-
course there for hours together, with the passionateness of an
Orleanist whose calculations had been upset by the fall of Louis
Philippe. He was formerly a hosier at Paris, where he had
been purveyor to the Court, but had now retired to Plassans.
He had made his son a magistrate, relying on the Orleanist
party to promote him to the highest dignities. The revolution
having ruined all his hopes, he rushed wildly into the reaction.
His fortune, his early commercial relations with the Tuileries,
which he represented as extremely cordial, that prestige which
is enjoyed by every man in the provinces who has made his
money in Paris and deigns to come and spend it in the heart of
a department, gave him a very powerful influence in the coun-
try ; some persons listened to him as though he were an oracle.
• But the strongest intellect of the 3^ellow drawing-room was
certainly Commander Sicardot, Aristide's father-in-law. Of
Herculean frame, with a brick-red face, scarred and planted
with clusters of grey hair, he was reckoned amongst the most
pompous old dolts of the Grande Armee. Durmg the days of

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 83

February, he was exasperated at the street warfare ; he never
wearied of mentioning the subject, proclaiming with indigna-
tion that this kind of fighting was shameful, and he recalled
with pride the grand reign of Napoleon.

There also frequented the Rougons' house an individual
with moist hands and equivocal look, the worthy Monsieur
Vuillet, a bookseller, who supplied all the devout ladies of the
town with holy images and rosaries. Vuillet kept a library of
classical and religious works ; he was a strict Catholic, a cir-
cumstance which insured him the custom of the numerous
convents and parish churches. '. By a stroke of genius he had
combined with his business the publication of a little bi-weekly
journal, the "Gazette de Plassans," which was devoted exclu-
sively to the interests of the clergy. This paper involved an
annual loss to him of a thousand francs, but it constituted him
the champion of the Church, and enabled him to dispose of his
sacred unsaleable stock. This illiterate man, whose ortho-
graphy was faulty, himself wrote the articles of the " Gazette"
with a humility and rancour that compensated for his lack of
talent. The marquis, in entering on the campaign, perceived
immediately the advantage that might be derived from the
co-operation of this insipid sacristan, this coarse, mercenary pen.
After February the articles in the "Gazette" contained fewer
mistakes ; the marquis revised them.

One can now imagine what a singular spectacle the Rougons'
yellow drawing-room presented every evening. All opinions
jostled each other, barking at the same time at the Republic.
They were all agreed in their hatred. The marquis, who,
indeed, never missed a meeting, appeased b}'- his presence the
little squabbles which arose between the commander and the
other adherents. These plebeians were inwardly flattered at
the handshakings which he distributed on his arrival and
departure. Roudier, however, like a freethinker of the Rue
Saint-Honore, asserted that the marquis had not a sou to bless
himself with, and was disposed to make light of him. The
latter preserved the amiable smile of a nobleman lowering
himself to the level of these middle-class people, without any
of those contemptuous grimaces which any other resident of
the Saint-Marc quarter would have thought it right to display.
The parasite life he had led had rendered him flexible. He was
the life and soul of the group, commanding in the name of
unknown personages whom he never revealed. *' They want

84 THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

this, they don't want that," he would say. These concealed
divinities, watching over the destinies of Plassans from behind
their cloud, without appearing" to interfere directly with public
matters, must have been certain priests, the great political
agents of the country. When the marquis pronounced this
mysterious " they," which inspired the assembly with a mar-
vellous respect, Vuillet confessed, with a gesture of devotion,
that he knew them very well.

The happiest person of all was Felicite. At last she had
people coming to her drawing-room. It was true she felt a
little ashamed of her old yellow velvet furniture. She consoled
herself, however, by thinking of the rich things she would
purchase when the good cause should have triumphed. The
Kougons had, in the end, regarded their royalism as very
serious. Felicitc went as far as to say, when Koudier was not
there, that if they had not made a fortune in the oil business the
fault lay in the monarchy of July. It was her mode of giving a
political colour to their poverty. She had a friendly word for
everybody, even for Granoux, inventing every evening some
new polite mode of waking him up when it was time to depart.

The drawing-room, that nucleus of conservatives belonging
to all parties, which daily augmented its numbers, soon wielded
a powerful influence. Owing to the diversified characters of
its members, and especially to the secret impulse which each
one received from the clergy, it became the centre of the
reactionary movement, spreading its influence throughout
Plassans. The policy of the marquis, by submerging his own
individuality, constituted Kougon the chief of the party. The
meetings were held at his house, and this circumstance sufficed
to stamp him, in the shortsighted view of the majority'', as the
head of this group, and to point him out for public observation.
The whole work was attributed to him ; he was believed to be
the ringleader of the movement which was gradually bringing
over to the conservative party those who were previously
enthusiastic republicans. There are some situations which
benefit only persons of bad repute. They lay the foundations
of their fortune where men who are better situated and more
influential would never dare to risk theirs. Surely Roudier,
Granoux, and the others, all men of means and respectability,
should have been preferred a thousand times to Pierre as the
acting leaders of the conservative party ! But none of them
would have consented to turn their drawing-room into a centre

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 85

of political agitation ; their convictions did not go so far as to
induce them to compromise themselves openly; in fact they
were only brawling' provincial babblers, who liked to inveigh
against the Republic at a neighbour's house as long as the
neighbour was willing to bear the responsibility of their
denunciations. The game was too risky. There was no one
among the middle-classes of Plassans who would play it
except the Rougons, whose insatiate longings urged them on
to extreme measures.

In the month of April, 1849, Eugene suddenly left Paris,
and came to stay with his father for a fortnight. Nobody ever
knew the purpose of this journey. It is very probable that
Eugene wanted to sound his native town, to ascertain whether
he could successfully stand as a candidate for the Legislative
Assembly, which was about to replace the Constituent Assembly.
He was too shrewd to risk a failure. No doubt public opinion
appeared to him little in his favour, for he abstained from any
attempt. It was not known at Plassans, moreover, what had
become of him, what he was doing at Paris. They found him
on his arrival less heavy and lethargic. They surrounded him,
endeavouring to make him speak. He feigned ignorance, and,
persisting in this attitude, he compelled them to talk ; a little
perspicacity would have discovered under his apparent uncon-
cern a great anxiety with regard to the political opinions of the
town. He seemed to be sounding the ground more on behalf
of a party than on his own account.

Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he never-
theless remained at Plassans until the end of the month,
attending assiduously the meetings in the yellow drawing-
room. As soon as the bell rang, he used to take up his position
in the window recess, as far as possible from the lamp. He
remained there the whole evening, resting his chin in the palm
of his right hand, and listening religiously. The grossest
absurdities did not disturb his equanimity. He signified his
approval of everything by a shake of the head, even to the
wild growls of Granoux. When any one asked him his opinion,
he politely repeated the opinion of the majority. Nothing
seemed to tire his patience, neither the empty dreams of the
marquis, who would speak of the Bourbons as if it were the
day after 1815, nor the effusions of citizen Roudier, who got-
quite pathetic when he recounted the number of pairs of socks
which he had supplied to the citizen king. On the contrary, ho

F

86 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

seemed quite at his ease amidst this Tower of Babel. Sometimes
when these grotesque personages were storming with might
and main against the Republic, his eyes were seen to smile
without his lips losing their air of gravity. His meditative
manner of listening, his invariable complacency, had earned
for him the sympathy of every one. lie was considered a
nonentity, though a very decent fellow. Whenever an old oil
or almond dealer could not get a hearing, amidst the clamour,
for a plan by which he could save France if he were master,
he would take himself off to Eugene and shout his marvellous
suggestions in his ear. Eugene would gently nod his head, as
though delighted with the grand projects he was listening to.
Vuillet, alone, regarded him with a suspicious eye. This book-
seller, half sacristan and half journalist, spoke less than the
others, but was more observant. He had noticed that the
lawyer conversed at times in a corner with Commander Sicardot.
He determined to watch them, but he never succeeded in
overhearing a single word. Eugene silenced the commander
by a wink whenever Vuillet approached them. From that time,
Sicardot never spoke of the Napoleons without a mysterious
smile.

Two days before his return to Paris, Eugene met his brother,
Aristide, on the Cours Sauvaire, and the latter accompanied
him for a short distance with the importunity of a man in search
of advice. Aristide was in great perplexity. From the day of
the proclamation of the Republic, he had manifested the most
lively enthusiasm for the new government. His intelligence,
sharpened by his two years' stay at Paris, enabled him to see
farther than the thick heads of Plassans. He foresaw the
impotence of the Legitimists and Orleanists, without distin-
guishing clearly who was the third thief that would come and
rob the Republic. He had ranged himself on the side of the
victors at all hazard. He had severed all connection with his
father, whom he publicly denounced as an old fool, an old
imbecile inveigled by the nobility.

" Yet mother is an intelHgent woman," he would add. " I
should never have thought her capable of inducing her husband
to join a party whose hopes are chimerical. They are going
the way to end their lives in poverty. But women know
nothing about politics."

He wanted to sell himself as dearly as possible. His great
anxiety, from that time, was to go with the stream, to range

THE FOKTUNE OF THE KOUGOXS. 87

himself on the side of that party which, in the hour of triumph,
would be able to reward him munificently. Unfortunately he
was groping in the dark. Shut up in his province, without a
guide, without any precise information, he felt quite lost.
Whilst waiting till the course of events traced out a sure path
for him, he preserved the attitude of an enthusiastic republican,
which he had assumed from the very first daj^ Thanks to this
attitude, he remained at the Sub-Prefecture ; his salary was
even raised. Burning with desire to play a part, however, he
persuaded a bookseller, a rival of Yuillet, to establish a demo-
cratic journal, of which he became one of the most energetic
contributors. Under his impulse the " Independant" w^aged a
merciless w^arfare against the reactionaries. But the current
gradually carried him farther than he w^ished to go ; he ended
by writing inflammatory articles, which made him shudder when
he re-read them. It was remarked at Plassans that a series of
attacks w^ere directed b}'' the son against all those persons
whom his father was in the habit of receiving of an evening in
his famous j^ellow drawing-room. The wealth of Roudier and
Granoux exasperated Aristide to such a degree as to make him
forget all prudence. Urged on by his jealous, insatiate bitter-
ness, he had made the middle classes his irreconcilable enemy,
when Eugene's arrival and demeanour at Plassans caused him
great consternation. He confessed to himself that his brother
was a very able man. According to him, that big, drowsy fellow
always slept with one eye open, like cats lying in wait in front of
a mouse-hole. And here was Eugene spending entire evenings
in the yellow drawnng-room, devoting himself religiously to
those grotesque personages whom he, Aristide, had so merci-
lessly ridiculed. When he discovered from the gossip of the
town that his brother shook hands with Granoux and the
marquis, he asked himself, with considerable anxiet}^, what was
the meaning of it ? Could he have been deceived to such a
degree as that ? Had the Legitimists or the Orleanists really
any chance of success ? This thought terrified him. He lost
his equilibrium, and, as frequently happens, he fell upon the
conservatives with more rancour to avenge his own blindness.
On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugene
on the Cours Sauvaire, he had published, in the " Independant,"
a terrible article on the intrigues of the clergy, in response to a
short paragraph from Yuillet, who accused the republicans of
desiring to demolish the churches. Vuillet was Aristide's

88 THE FOETUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

bug-bear. Never a week passed but these two journalists
exchanged the coarsest insults. In the country, where a peri-
phrastic style is still cultivated, polemics are clothed in hig-h-
sounding phrases instead of coarse abuse. Aristide called his
adversary "brother Judas," or "slave of Saint-Anthony."
Yuillet g-allantly retorted by terming" the republican "a
monster gutted with blood supplied by the ig-noble guillotine."

In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare
to appear openly uneasy, contented himself with asking: " Did
you read my article yesterday ? What do you think of it? "

Eugene slightly shrugged his shoulders.

" You're a simpleton, brother," was his sole reply.

" Then j^ou think Yuillet right?" cried the journalist, turning
pale ; " you believe in Yuillet's triumph ? "

"I!— Yuillet "

He was certainly about to add, " Yuillet is as big a fool as
you." But, observing his brother's distorted face stretching
anxiously towards him, he appeared to be seized with a sudden
mistrust.

"Yuillet has his good points," he calmly replied.

When he parted from his brother, Aristide felt himself more
perplexed than before. Eugene must certainly have been
making game of him, for Yuillet.was really the most abominable
person imaginable. He determined to be prudent, not to tie
himself down any more, so that he might have his hands free
in case he should one day be called upon to help any party in
strangling the Republic.

On the morning of his departure, an hour before mounting
the diligence, Eugene took his father into the bedroom and had
a long conversation with him. Felicite, who remained in the
drawing-room, tried in vain to catch what they were saying.
The two men spoke low, as if they feared to allow a single
word to be heard outside. When at last they quitted the bed-
room they seemed in high spirits. After kissing his father and
mother, Eugene, who usually spoke in a drawling tone, said
with affected vivacity :

" You have understood me, father ? There lies our fortune.
We must work with all our energies in that direction. Trust
to me."

" I'll follow your instructions faithfully," Rougon replied.
" Only don't forget what I asked you as the price of my co-
operation."

THE FOP.TUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 89

" If we succeed your demands shall be satisfied, I give j'ou
my word. Moreover, I will write to j^ou and guide you,
according to the direction which events take. Mind, no panic
or excitement. You must obey me implicitl3\"

" What have you been plotting in there ? " Felicite asked
inquisitivel3\

*' My dear mother," Eugene replied with a smile," you
have had too little faith in me hitherto to induce me to confide
my hopes to j-ou to-da}^ as they only rest on probable calcula-
tions at present. You must be trustful in order to comprehend
me. Moreover, father will inform you when the time comes."

And as Felicite assumed the attitude of a woman who feels
somewhat piqued, he added in her ear, as he kissed her once
more :

'• I take after you, although you disowned me. Too much
intelligence would be dangerous at the present moment.
AVhen the crisis comes, it is you who will have to manage the
business."

He then left, but came back again and, opening the door,
said in an imperious tone :

"Above all things, do not trust Aristide ; he is a mar-all,
who will spoil everything. I have studied him sufficiently to
feel certain that he will always fall on his feet. Don't have
any pity; if we make a fortune, he'll know how to rob us of
his share."

AVhen Eugene had gone, Felicite endeavoured to ferret out
the secret they were hiding from her. She knew her husband
too well to interrogate him openly. He would have replied
angrily that it was no business of hers. In spite of the clever
tactics she pursued, however, she learnt absolutely nothing.
Eugene had chosen a good confidant for these troubled times,
when the greatest discretion was necessary. Pierre, flattered
by his son's confidence, exaggerated that passive heaviness
which made him a grave, impenetrable mass. When Felicite
saw she would not find out anything from him, she ceased to
flutter round him. Only one curiosity remained, and that the
most intense. The two men had mentioned a price stipulated
by Pierre himself. "What could that price be? That was the
point of interest for Felicite, who did not care a rap for political
matters. She knew that her husband must have sold himself
dearly, but she was burning to know the nature of the bargain.
One evening, when they had gone to bed, seeing Pierre in a

90 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

good humour, she brought the conversation round to the dis-
comforts of their poverty.

"It's quite time to put an end to this," she said. "We
have been ruining ourselves in oil and fuel since these gentle-
men have been coming here. And who will pay the
reckoning ? Nobody, perhaps."

Her husband fell into the trap, and smiled with complacent
superiority.

" Patience," he said. Then he added, with an air of shrewd-
ness, as he looked into his wife's eyes: "Would you be glad
to be the wife of a receiver of taxes ? "

Felicite's face turned crimson with joyous warmth. She
sat up and clapped her old withered little hands like a child.

" Really ? " she stammered. " At Plassans ? "

Pierre, without replying, gave a long affirmative nod. He
enjoyed his consort's astonishment.

"But," she at last resumed, stifling with emotion, "you
must deposit an enormous sum as security. I have heard that
our neighbour, Monsieur Peirotte, had to deposit eighty thou-
sand francs in the treasury."

"Eh!" said the retired oil-dealer, "that's nothing to do
with me ; Eugene will see to that. He will get the money
advanced by a banker in Paris. You see, I selected an
appointment with a good salary. Eugene at first made a wry
face, sajnng one must be rich to occupy such posts, for which
influential men were usually nominated. I persisted, however,
and he yielded. To be a receiver of taxes one requires to
know neither Greek nor Latin. I shall have a representative,
like Monsieur Peirotte, and he will do all the work."

Felicite listened to him with rapture.

" I guessed, however/' he continued, " what it was that
perplexed our dear son. We're not much lils:ed here. People
know we have no means, and will make themselves obnoxious.
But all sorts of things occur in a time of crisis. Eugene wished
to get me an appointment in another town. I objected; I want
to remain at Plassans."

" Yes, yes, we must remain here," the old woman quickly
replied. " We have suffered here, and here we must triumph.
Ah! I'll crush them all, those fine ladies on the Mail, who scorn-
fully eye my woollen dresses ! I didn't think of the appoint-
ment of receiver of taxes at all, I thought you wanted to
become mayor."

THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 91

"Mayor! nonsense. The appointment is honorary. Eugene
also mentioned the mayoralty to me. I replied : ' I accept, if
you give me an income of fifteen thousand francs.' "

This conversation, in which high figures flew about like
rockets, excited Felicite. She frisked about, feeling a kind of
internal itching. At last she assumed a pious attitude, and
collecting herself :

** Come, let us reckon it out," she said ; '• how much will
you earn ? "

" Well," said Pierre," " the fixed salary, I believe, is three
thousand francs."

" Three thousand," Felicite counted.

*' Then there is so much per cent, on the receipts, which, at
Plassans, may produce the sum of twelve thousand francs."

" That makes fifteen thousand."

*' Yes, about fifteen thousand francs. That's what Peirotte
earns. That's not all. Peirotte does a little banking business
on his own account. It's allowed. Perhaps I shall be disposed
to make a venture when I feel luck on my side."

" Well, let us say twenty thousand. Twenty thousand
francs a year ! " repeated Felicite', overwhelmed b}^ the amount.

" We shall have to repay the advances," Pierre observed.

" That doesn't matter," Felicite replied, " we shall be
richer than many of these gentlemen. Are the marquis and
the others going to share the cake with you ? "

" No, no ; it will be all for us," he replied.

And as she continued to importune him with her questions,
Pierre scowled, thinking that she wanted to wrest his secret
from him.

" We've talked enough," he said, roughly. " It's late, let us
go to sleep. It will bring us bad luck to make our calculations
beforehand. I haven't got the place yet. Above all things,
be prudent."

When the lamp was extinguished, Felicite could not sleep.
With her eyes closed, she built the most marvellous castles in
the air. The twenty thousand francs a year danced a diabolical
dance before her in the darkness. She occupied splendid apart-
ments in the new town, enjoyed Monsieur Peirotte's luxuries,
gave parties, and bespattered the whole town with her wealth.
That which tickled her vanity most was the high position her
husband would then occupy'. He would pay over their
annuities to Granoux, Roudier, and all those people- who

^^ The fortune of the rougons.

to-day came to her bouse as they would go to a cafe, to
swagger and learn the latest news. She had noticed the free-
and-easy manner in which these people entered her drawing-
room, and it had made her take a dislike to them. Even the
marquis, with his ironical politeness, was beginning to dis-
please her. To triumph alone, therefore, to keep the cake for
themselves, as she expressed it, was a revenge which she
fondly cherished. Later on, when these ill-bred persons pre-
sented themselves, hats off, before Monsieur Rougon the
receiver of taxes, she would crush them in her turn. She
turned these thoughts over in her mind all night. On the
morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively cast her
first glance on the other side of the street, at Monsieur
Peirotte's house, and smiled as she contemplated the large
damask curtains hanging behind the windows.

Fe'licite, in changing her hopes, only cherished them with
greater intensity. Like all women, she did not object to a
tinge of mystery. The secret object her husband was pursuing
excited her more than the Legitimist intrigues of Monsieur de
Carnavant had ever done. She abandoned, without much
regret, the calculations based on the marquis's success from
the moment that her husband declared he would be able to
make large profits by other means. She displayed, moreover,
remarkable prudence and discretion.

In reality, she was tortured by an anxious curiosity ; she
studied Pierre's slightest movements, endeavouring to discover
their meaning. If by chance he were going on the wrong
track ? If Eugene were dragging them in his train into some
break-neck pit, whence they would come out more hungered
and more impoverished? Her confidence was not shaken,
however. Eugene had commanded with such an air of
authority that she ultimately came to believe in him. There
again some unknown power was at work. Pierre used to
speak mysteriously of the high personages whom their eldest
son visited at Paris, although she did not know what he could
have to do with them. She was unable, however, to close her
eyes to Aristide's ill-advised acts at Plassans. In her own
drawing-room they did not scruple to treat the democratic
journalist with extreme severit}^ Granoux muttered that he
was a brigand, and Poudier used to repeat, three or four times
a week, to Felicite :

" Your son is writing some fine articles. Only yesterday

THE rOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 93

he attacked our friend Yuillet with a scurriHty quite re-
volting."

The whole room joined in the chorus, and Commander
Sicardot spoke of boxing his son-in-law's ears, while Pierre
flatly disowned him. The poor mother hung her head, re-
straining her tears. For an instant she felt an inclination to
burst forth, to tell Roudier that her dear child, in spite of his
faults, was worth more than he and ail the others put together.
But she was tied down, and did not wish to compromise the
position so laboriously attained. Seeing the whole town so
bitter against Aristide, she despaired, thinking he was hope-
lessly ruining himself. On two occasions, she spoke to him
secretly, conjuring him to return to them, and not to irritate
the yellow drawing-room further. Aristide replied that she
did not understand such matters ; that she was the one who
had committed a great blunder in placing her husband at the
service of the marquis. She had to abandon him, resolving,
however, if Eugene succeeded, to compel the latter to share
the spoil with the poor fellow who was her favourite child.

After the departure of his eldest son, Pierre Rougon pursued
his reactionary intrigues. Nothing seemed to have changed
in the opinions of the famous 3'ellow drawing-room. Every
evening the same men came and spread the same propaganda
in favour of a monarchy, while the master of the house ap-
proved and aided them with as much zeal as in the past.
Eugene had left Plassans on the 1st of May. A few days
later, the yellow drawing-room was in raptures. They were
discussing the letter of the President of the Republic to General
Oudinot, in which the siege of Rome was decided upon. This
letter was regarded as a brilliant victory, due to the firm
attitude of the reactionary party. Since 1848 the Chambers
had been discussing the Roman question ; it was reserved for
a Bonaparte to go and stifle a rising Republic by an inter-
vention of which France, if free, would never have been guilty.
The marquis declared that they could not better promote the
cause of Legitimacy. Vuillet wrote a superb article. The
enthusiasm was unbounded when, a month later. Commander
Sicardot entered the Rougons' house one evening and an-
nounced to the company that the French army was fighting
under the walls of Rome. While everybody was exclaiming,
he went up to Pierre, and shook hands with him in a significant
manner. Then, when he had taken a seat, he commenced to

94 1:he i'oktune op the eougons.

speak in eulogistic terms of the President of the Republic,
who, he said, was the only person able to save France from
anarchy.

" Let him save it, then, as quickly as possible," interrupted
the marquis, " and let him then understand his duty by re-
storing- it to its legitimate masters."

Pierre seemed to approve this fine retort with a lively
satisfaction, and having thus given proof of his ardent royalism,
he ventured to remark that Prince Louis Bonaparte had his
entire sympathy in this matter. He thereupon exchanged a
few short sentences with the commander in celebration of the
excellent intentions of the President, and which one would
have thought had been prepared and learnt beforehand.
Bonapartism now entered, for the first time, into the yellow
drawing-room. It is true that since the election of the 10th
of December the prince had been treated there with a certain
amount of consideration. They preferred him a thousand
times to Cavaignac, and the whole reactionary party had
voted for him. But they regarded him rather as an accom-
plice than a friend ; and, as such, they distrusted him, and
began to accuse him of a desire to keep for himself the
chestnuts which he had pulled out of the fire. On this even-
ing, however, owing to the campaign at Rome, they listened
with fervour to the eulogies of Pierre and the commander.

Granoux and Roudier already demanded that the Presi-
dent should order all those republican rascals to be shot. The
marquis, leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed meditatively
at a faded rose on the carpet. "When he at last lifted his head,
Pierre, who seemed to follow furtively the effect of his words
on his countenance, suddenly ceased speaking. Monsieur de
Carnavant only smiled as he glanced at Felicite with a know-
ing look. This rapid by-play was not observed by the other
people there. Yuillet alone remarked in a sharp tone :

" I would rather see your Bonaparte at London than at
Paris. Our affairs would get along better."

The old oil-dealer turned slightly pale, fearing that he had
gone too far.

" I don't care much about ' my ^ Bonaparte," he said, with
firmness ; " you know where I would send him to if I were
master. I simply assert that the expedition to Rome was a
good stroke."

Felicite had followed this scene with curious astonishment.

a:HE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 05

She did not broach the subject to her husband, which proved
that she adopted it as the basis of a secret intuitional study.
The marquis's smile, the significance of which escaped her,
set her thinking-.

From this day forward, Rougon, at distant intervals, when-
ever the occasion offered, slipped in a good word for the
President of the Republic. On such evenings, Commander
Sicardot acted the part of a complaisant old fellow. Moreover,
the clerical opinion still reigned supreme in the yellow drawing-
room. It was more particularly in the following year that this
group of reactionaries gained such a determined hold upon the
town, owing to the retrograde movement which was going on at
Paris. The entire anti-Liberal legislation, b}^ which the country
designated the expedition, to Rome, definitively secured the
triumph of the Rougon faction. The last enthusiastic citizens
saw the Republic tottering, and hastened to rally round the
conservatives. The Rougons' hour had now arrived ; the new
town almost gave them an ovation on the day when the tree
of Liberty, planted on the Place before the Sub-Prefecture,
was sawed down. This tree, a young poplar brought from
the banks of the Yiorne, had gradually withered, much to the
despair of the republican working-men, who used to come
every Sunday to observe the progress of the ravage without
being able to comprehend the cause of its slow death. A
hatter's apprentice at last asserted that he had seen a woman
leave Rougon's house and go and pour a pail of poisoned water
at the foot of the tree. It thenceforward became a matter of
history that Felicite in person used to get up every night to
sprinkle the poplar with vitriol. When the tree was dead the
Municipal Council declared that the dignity of the Republic
demanded its removal. As they feared the displeasure of the
working population, they selected an advanced hour of the
night. The conservative householders of the new town got wind
of this little ceremony, and all came down to the Place before
the Sub-Prefecture in order to see how a tree of Liberty would
fall. The frequenters of the yellow drawing-room planted
themselves at the windows. When the poplar cracked and fell
with a thud into the darkness, as rigid as a hero mortally
wounded, Felicite felt bound to wave a white handkerchief.
This induced the crowd to applaud, and the spectators re-
sponded to the salute by waving their handkerchiefs likewise.
A group of people even came under the window shouting :

96 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

''We'll bury it, we'll bury it."

They meant the Republic, no doubt. Felicite's emotion
almost brought on a nervous attack. It was a fine time for
the yellow drawing-room.

Yet the marquis looked at Felicite with the same mysteri-
ous smile. This little old man was far too shrewd not to
understand whither France was tending. He was among the
first to scent the Empire. When the Legislative Assemblj^,
later on, exhausted itself in useless squabbling, when the
Orleanists and Legitimists tacitly accepted the idea of the
Coup d'Etat, he said to himself that the game was decidedly
lost. In fact, he was the only one who saw clearl}^ Vuillet
certainly felt that the cause of Henri V, espoused by his
paper, was becoming detestable ; but it mattered little to him;
he was content to be the obedient creature of the clergy ; his
entire policy was framed to enable him to dispose of as many
of his rosaries and sacred images as possible. As for Roudier
and Granoux, they lived in a state of blind scare ; it was not
certain whether they really had any opinions ; all that they
desired was to eat and sleep in peace, their political aspirations
ended there. The marquis, though he had bid farewell to his
hopes, continued to go to the Rougons' as regularly as ever.
He enjoyed himself there. The shock to the ambitions of the
middle classes, the display of their follies, had finally become an
extremely amusing spectacle for him. He shuddered at the
thought of again shutting himself in his little apartment, which
he owed to the beneficence of the Count de Valqueyras. With
a kind of malicious delight he preserved for himself the con-
viction that the hour of the Bourbons had not yet arrived. He
feigned blindness, working as hitherto for the triumph of Legi-
timacy, and still remaining at the orders of the clergy and
nobility. From the very first day he had penetrated Pierre's
new line of action, and he believed Felicite was his ac-
complice.

One evening, being the first to arrive, he found the old_
woman alone in the drawing-room.

" Well ! little one," he asked, with his smiling familiarity,!
" are your affairs going on all right ? Why the deuce do youj
make such mysteries with me ? "

"I'm not hiding anything from you," Felicite replied,]
somewhat perplexed.

" Come, do you think you can deceive an old fox like mej

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 97

eh ? My dear child, treat me as a friend. I'm quite ready to
help you secretly. Come now, be frank ! "

A bright idea struck Felicite. She had nothing- to tell ;
perhaps she would be able to find something* out if she kept
quiet.

"Why do you smile?" Monsieur de Carnavant resumed.
*' That's the beg-inning of a confession. I suspected that you
must be behind your husband. Pierre is too stupid to invent
the pretty treason you are hatching. I sincerely hope the
Bonapartists will give you what I would have asked for jon
from the Bourbons."

This single sentence confirmed the suspicions which the old
woman had entertained for some time past.

" Prince Louis has every chance, hasn't he ? " she asked
eagerly.

" Will you betray me if I tell you that I believe so ? " the
marquis laughingly replied. " I've donned my mourning over
it, little one. I'm a good-natured old man, worn out and put
on the shelf. It was for you, however, that I was working.
Since you have been able to find the way without me, I shall
feel some consolation in seeing j-ou triumph from my defeat.
Above all things, don't make any more mysteries. Come to
me if you are in trouble."

And he added with the sceptical smile of a gentleman who
has demeaned himself :

" Pshaw ! I can also go in for a little treachery ! "

At this moment the clan of retired oil and almond dealers
arrived.

" Ah ! the dear reactionaries ! " Monsieur de Carnavant
continued in an undertone. "You see, little one, the great art
of politics consists in having a pair of good eyes when other
people are blind. You've got all the best cards in the pack."

On the following day, Felicite, incited by this conversation,
desired to assure herself on the matter. They were then in the
first days of the year 1851. For more than eighteen months,
Eougon had been in the habit of receiving a letter from his son
Eugene regularlv everv fortnight. He used to shut himself in
the bedroom to read these letters which he then hid in the
bottom of an old secretaire, the key of which he carefully kept
in his waistcoat pocket. When his wife questioned him, he
would only answer : " Eugene writes that he is going on all
right." Felicite had long since thought of laying hands on her

98 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

son's letters. On the morning* of the following day, while
Pierre was still asleep, she got up and went on tiptoe to
substitute the key of the chest of drawers in the waistcoat
pocket for that of the secretaire, which was of the same size.
Then, as soon as her husband had g-one out, she shut herself in
in her turn, emptied the drawer, and read all the letters with
feverish curiosity.

Monsieur de Carnavant had not been mistaken, and her own
suspicions were confirmed. There were about forty letters,
which enabled her to follow the great Bonapartist movement
which was to terminate in the Empire. It was a sort of concise
journal, exposing' the facts as they occurred, and drawing hopes
and suggestions from each of them. Eugene was confident.
He described Prince Louis Bonaparte to his father as the destined
necessary man who alone could unravel the situation. He
had believed in him prior even to his return to France, when
Bonapartism was treated as a ridiculous chimera. Felicite
perceived that her son had been a very active secret agent since
1848. Although he did not explain very clearly his position in
Paris, it was evident that he was working for the Empire, under
the orders of persons whose names he mentioned with a sort of
familiarity. Each of his letters gave information as to the
progress of the cause to which an early denouement was fore-
shadowed. They usually concluded by pointing out the line of
action Pierre should pursue at Plassans. Felicite could now
comprehend certain words and acts of her husband, the
significance of which had previously escaped her ; Pierre was
obeying his son, and blindly following his recommendations.

When the old woman had finished reading, she was con-
vinced. Eugene's entire thoughts were clearly revealed to her.
He reckoned upon making his political fortune in the squabble,
and repaying his parents, with the results of this stroke, the
debt owing for his education, by throwing them a scrap of the
prey when the quarry was secured. However small the assist-
ance his father might render to him and to the cause, it would
not be difticult to get him appointed receiver of taxes. They
would not be able to refuse anything to him who had steeped
his hands in the most secret machinations. His letters were
simply a kind attention on his part, an expedient to prevent the
Rougons from committing any imprudence, for which Felicite
felt deeply grateful. She read certain passages of the letters
over again, those in which Eugene spoke, in vague terms, of

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 9J>

the final catastrophe. This catastrophe, the nature or bearing's
of which she could not well conceive, became a sort of end of
the world for her. God would range the chosen ones on His
right hand and the damned on His left, and she placed herself
among" the former.

When she succeeded in replacing the key in the waistcoat
pocket on the following night, she made up her mind to employ
the same expedient for reading every new letter that arrived.
She resolved, likewise, to profess complete ignorance. This
plan was an excellent one. Henceforward, she gave her hus-
band the more assistance as she appeared to render it
unconsciously. AVhen Pierre thought he was working alone
it was she who brought the conversation round to the desired
topic, recruiting partisans for the decisive moment. She felt
hurt at Eugene's distrust of her. She wanted to be able to
say to him, after the success : " I knew all, and so far from
spoiling anything, I have secured the victory." Never did an
accomplice make less noise and work so hard The marquis,
whom she had taken into her confidence, was astounded at it.

The fate of her dear Aristide, however, continued to make
her uneasy. Now that she shared the faith of her eldest
son, the rabid articles of the " Independant" alarmed her still
more. She longed to convert the unfortunate republican to
Napoleonist ideas ; but she did not know how to do it in a
discreet manner. She recalled the emjphasis with which
Eugene had told them to be on their guard against Aristide.
She submitted the matter to Monsieur de Carnavant, who was
entirely of the same opinion.

"Little one," he said to her, "in politics one must know
how to look after one's-self. If you were to convert your son,
and the 'Independant' were to start writing in defence of Bona-
partism, it would strike a rude blow to the party. The ' Inde-
pendant ' has been already condemned, its title alone suffices to
enrage the middle classes of Plassans. Let dear Aristide
flounder about, it moulds j^oung people. He does not appear
to me to be cut out for carrying on the role of a martyr for any
length of time."

In her eagerness to point out the right way to her family,
now that she believed herself in possession of the truth, Felicite
went so far as to desire to indoctrinate her son Pascal. The
doctor, with the egotism of a savant immersed in his researches,
concerned himself very little with politics. Empires might

100 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

fall while he was making an experiment without his deigning
to turn his head. Fie at last yielded, however, to the impor-
tunity of his mother, who accused him more than ever of living
like an unsociable churl.

*' If you were to go into society," she used to say to him,
•' you would get some well-to-do patients. Come, at least,
and spend the evenings in our drawing-room. You will make
the acquaintance of Messieurs Roudier, Granoux, and Sicardot,
all gentlemen in good circumstances, who will pay you
four or five francs a visit. The poor people will not enrich

you."

The idea of succeeding in life, of seeing all her family attain
to fortune, had become a monomania with FeUcite. Pascal,
to be agreeable to her, came and spent a few evenings in the
yellow drawing-room. He w^as much less bored than he had
apprehended. At first he was rather stupefied at the degree of
imbecility to which a sane man can sink. The old oil and
almond-dealers, the marquis and the commander even, appeared
to him curious animals, w^hich he had not till then had the
opportunity of studying. lie looked with a naturalist's interest
at their faces relaxed into a grimace, in which he discerned
their occupations and their appetites ; he listened to their inane
chatter, as he would have tried to catch the meaning of a cat's
mewing or a dog's barking. At this time he w^as very much
occupied with comparative natural histor}^, applying to the
human race the observations which he had been enabled to
make upon animals with regard to the operations of heredity.
When he was in the yellow drawing-room, therefore, he amused
himself with the belief that he had fallen in with a menagerie.
He established identities between each of these grotesque
creatures and some animal of his acquaintance. The marquis
reminded him exactly of a large green grasshopper, with his
leanness and his small crafty-looking head. Vuillet gave him
the pale, slimy impression of a toad. He was more considerate
for Roudier, a fat sheep, and for the commander, an old toothless
mastiff. But the prodigious Granoux was a perpetual cause
of astonishment to him. He spent a whole evening measuring
his facial angle. When he heard him mutter some indistinct
imprecations against those blood-suckers the republicans, he
alwaj's expected to hear him moan like a calf ; and he could
never see him rise, without imagining that he was about to leave
the room on all fours.

1

THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGOXS. 101

'' Talk to them," his mother used to say in an undertone ;
*' try and make a practice out of these gentlemen."

"I am not a veterinary surgeon," he at last replied,
exasperated.

One evening Felicite took him into a corner and tried to
catechise him. She was glad to see him come to her house
rather assiduously. She thought he was brought back to the
world, not suspecting for a moment the singular amusement he
derived from ridiculing these rich people. She cherished the
secret project of making him the fashionable doctor at Plassans.
It would be sufficient if men like Granoux and Roudier con-
sented to give him a start. She wished, above all, to impart
to him the political views of the family, considering that a
doctor had everything to gain by constituting himself a warm
partisan of the regime which was to succeed the Republic.

*'My friend," she said to him, "as you have now become
reasonable, you must give some thought to the future. You
are accused of being a republican, because you are foolish
enough to attend all the beggars of the town without making
any charge. Be frank, what are your real opinions ? "

Pascal looked at his mother with naive astonishment, then
with a smile he replied :

" My real opinions ? I don't quite know — I am accused of
being a republican, did you say ? Very well ! I don't feel at
all offended. I am undoubtedly a republican, if you under-
stand by that word a man that wishes the welfare of ever\'-
body."

" But you will not arrive at anything," Felicite quickly
interrupted. " You will be swallowed up. Look at your
brothers, they are trying to make their wa3^"

Pascal comprehended that he was not called upon to defend
his philosophic egotism. His mother simply accused him of not
speculating on the political situation. He commenced to
laugh somewhat sadly, and then turned the conversation.
Felicite could never induce him to calculate the chances of the
various parties, nor to enlist in that one which seemed likely
to carry the day. He continued, however, to come now and
again to spend the evening in the yellow drawing-room.
Granoux interested him like an antediluvian animal.

In the meantime, events were progressing. The year 1851

was a year of anxiety and apprehension for the politicians of

Plassans, and the secret cause of the Rougons profited by this

<;

102 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

circumstance. The most contradictory news arrived from
Paris, sometimes the republicans were in the ascendant, some-
times the conservative party crushed the Republic. The echo
of the squabbles which were rending* the Legislative Assem-
bly penetrated into the interior of the country, exaggerated
one day, attenuated the next, and varied to such a degree
as to obscure the view of the most clear-sighted. The only
general " feeling was that a denouement was approaching.
The prevailing ignorance as to the nature of this denouement
kept these timid middle-class people in a terrible state of
anxiety. Everybody wished to see the end of it. They were
sick of this uncertainty, and would have rushed into the arms
of the Grand Turk, if he would have deigned to save France
from anarchy.
/ The marquis's smile became more pointed. In the evening,
at the yellow drawing-room, when Granoux's growl was
rendered indistinct by fright, he would draw near to Felicite
and whisper in her ear :

" Come, little one, the fruit is ripe — but you must make
yourself useful."

Felicite, who continued to read Eugene's letters, and knew
that a decisive crisis might any day occur, had often felt the
necessity of making herself useful, and questioned herself as to
the manner in which the Rougons should employ themselves.
At last she consulted the marquis.

" It all depends upon circumstances," the little old man
replied. " If the department remains quiet, if no insurrection
comes to terrify Plassans, it will be difficult for you to make
yourself conspicuous and to render any services to the new
government. I advise you, in that case, to remain at home,
and await peacefully the bounties of j^our son Eugene. But if
the people rise, and our brave citizens think themselves in
danger, there will be a fine part to play. Your husband is
somewhat heavy "

"Oh!" said Felicite, "I'll undertake to make him supple.
Do you think the department will revolt ? "

" To my mind it's a certainty. Plassans, perhaps, will not
make a stir ; the reaction has secured too firm a hold here for
that. But the neighbouring towns, especially the small
boroughs and the country towns, have been worked for a long"
time by certain secret societies, and belong to the advanced
republican party. If a Coup d'Etat does burst forth, the tocsin

THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGOXS. 103

will be heard throughout the entire country, from the forests of
the Seille to the plateau of Sainte-Roure."

Felicite collected herself.

"You think, then," she resumed, "that an insurrection is
necessary to ensure our fortune ! "

" That's my opinion," replied Monsieur de Carnavant.

And he added, with a slig-htly ironical smile :

" A new dynasty is never founded excepting upon an affray.
Blood is a good pasture. It will be fine if the Rougons date
from a massacre, like certain illustrious families."

These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill
through Felicite's bones. But she was a strong-minded woman,
and the sight of Monsieur Peirotte's beautiful curtains, which
she religiously viewed every morning, sustained her courage.
When she felt herself giving way, she used to plant herself at
the window and contemplate the tax-receiver's house. For
her it was the Tuileries. She had determined upon the most
extreme measures, to secure an entree into the new town, that
promised land on the threshold of which she had stood with
burning longings for so many years.

The conversation which she had held with the marquis had
at last clearly revealed the situation to her. A few days after-
wards, she succeeded in reading one of Eugene's letters, in
which he, who was working for the Coup d'Etat, seemed also
to rely upon an insurrection as the means of investing his
father with some importance. Eugene knew his department
well. xVll his suggestions had been framed with the object of
placing as much influence as possible in the hands of the yellow
drawing-room reactionaries, so that the Rougons might be able
to hold the town at the critical moment. In accordance with
his wishes, the yellow drawing-room was master of Plassans in
November, 1851. Roudier represented the rich citizens there ;
his attitude would certainly decide that of the entire new town.
Granoux was still more valuable ; he had the Municipal Council be-
hind him : he was its most powerful member, a fact which will give
some idea of its other members. Finally, through Commander
Sicardot, for whom the marquis had succeeded in getting an
appointment as chief of the National Guard, the yellow drawing-
room had the armed force at their disposal.

The Rougons, those poor disreputable devils, had thus suc-
ceeded in rallying round themselves the instruments of their own
fortune. Every one, from cowardice or stupidity, would have

m

104 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

to obey them and work in the dark for their aggrandisement.
They had to dread only those other influences which might
be working towards the same end as they, and which would
partially rob their efforts of the palm of victory. That was
their great fear, for they wanted to reserve to themselves the
role of deliverers. They knew beforehand that they would be
rather aided than obstructed by the clergy and the nobility.
But were the sub-prefect, the mayor, and the other functionaries
to take a step in advance and stifle the insurrection immediatel}^
they would find themselves thrown into the shade, and even
arrested in their exploits ; they would have neither time nor
means to make themselves useful. What they longed for was
a complete abstention, a general panic among the functionaries.
If all regular administration were to disappear, if they could
then dispose of the destinies of Plassans for one day only, their
fortune would be firmly established.

Happily for them there was not a man in the administration
with such firm convictions or in such needy circumstances as to
feel disposed to risk the game. The sub-prefect was a man of
liberal spirit whom the executive had ignored at Plassans, owing,
no doubt, to the good repute of the town ; of timid character
and incapable of exceeding his authority, he would no doubt
be greatly embarrassed in the face of an insurrection. The
Rougons, who knew he was in favour of the democratic cause,
and consequently never dreaded his zeal, were simply curious to
know what attitude he would assume. The municipality did
not cause them much apprehension. The mayor, Monsieur
Gar^onnet, was a Legitimist whose nomination had been pro-
cured by the Saint-Marc quarter in 1849. He detested the
republicans and treated them with undisguised disdain ; but he
was too closely united by bonds of friendship with certain
members of the church to lend any active hand to a Bonapartist
Coup d'Etat. The other functionaries were in exactly the same
position. The justices of the peace, the post-master, the tax
collector, as well as Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes,
all holding their posts through the influence of the clerical re-
action, could not accept the Empire with any great outburst of
enthusiasm. The Rougons, though they did not quite see how
they could get rid of these people and clear the way for them-
selves, nevertheless indulged in sanguine hopes on discovering
that there would be no one to dispute their role of deliverers
with them.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOtGOISrS. 305

The denouement was drawing" near. In the last days of
November, as the rumour of a Coup d'Etat was circulating*,
the prince-president was accused of seeking to bo nominated
emperor.

" Eh ! we'll call him whatever he likes," Granoux exclaimed,
'' provided he has these republican rascals shot ! "

This exclamation of Granoux, who was believed to be
asleep, caused a great commotion. The marquis pretended
not to have heard it ; but all the people approved the old
almond-dealer by a nod. Koudier, who did not fear to add
his loud applause, because he was rich, went so far as to
declare, as he glanced at Monsieur de Carnavant out of the
corner of his eye, that the position was no longer tenable, and
that France must be chastised as soon as possible, never mind
by what hand.

The marquis still maintained a silence which was inter-
preted as an acquiescence. The conservative clan, abandoning
the cause of T^egitimacy, then ventured to make vows on
behalf of the Empire.

" M}^ friends," said Commander Sicardot, getting up from
his seat, *' only a Napoleon can now protect the lives and
properties menaced. Have no fear, I've taken the necessary
precautions to preserve order at PJassans."

In fact the commander, in concert with Rougon, had con-
cealed, in a kind of cart-house near the ramparts, a supply of
cartridges and a considerable number of muskets ; he had, at
the same time, secured the co-operation of the National Guards
on whom he believed he could rely. His words produced a
very favourable impression. On separating for the evening,
the peaceful citizens of the yellow drawing-room spoke of
massacring the " Reds " if they dared to stir.

On the 1st of December Pierre Rougon received a letter
from Eugene which he took with him to read in his bed-room,
in accordance with his prudent habit. Fe'licite observed that
he was very agitated when he came out again. She fluttered
round the secretaire all day. When night came, she could
not restrain her impatience any longer. Her husband had
scarcely fallen asleep, when she got up quietl}'-, took the key
of the secretaire from the waistcoat pocket, and got possession
of the letter with as little noise as possible. Eugene, in ten
lines, warned his father that the crisis was about to take place,
and advised him to inform his mother as to the situation of

i06 THE FORTU^'E OF THE HOtJGOXS.

affairs. The hour for informing her had arrived ; he might
stand in need of her advice.

Felicite awaited, on the following day, a disclosure which,
however, did not come. She did not dare to avow her
curiosity ; she continued to feign ignorance, enraged at the
foolish distrust of her husband who, doubtless, considered her
a gossip, and weak like other women. Pierre, with that marital
pride which inspires a man with the belief of his superiority
in the household, had ended by attributing all their past ill-luck
to his wife. From the time that he fancied he was conducting
matters alone everything seemed to him to go as he wished.
He had decided, therefore, to dispense altogether with his
consort's counsels, and to confide nothing to her, in spite of
his son's recommendations.

Felicite was piqued to such a degree that she would have
upset the whole affair, had she not desired the triumph as
ardently as Pierre. She continued to work energetically for
victory, endeavouring to take her revenge at the same time.

" Ah ! if he could only have some great fright," thought
she ; " if he would only commit some imprudence ! Then I
should see him come to me and humbly ask for advice ; it
would be my turn to lay down the law."

She felt somewhat uneasy at the imperious attitude Pierre
would certainly assume if he were to triumph -without her aid.
When she married this peasant's son, in preference to some
notary's clerk, she had intended to make use of him as a
dancing puppet, whose strings she would pull in her own way ;
and now, at the decisive moment, the puppet, in his blind
stupidit}'-, wanted to work alone ! All the cunning, all the
feverish activity of the old woman protested against it. She
knew Pierre was quite capable of some brutal determination,
such as that which he had made when he compelled his mother to
sign the receipt for fifty thousand francs ; the tool was certainly
a useful and unscrupulous one ; but she felt the necessity for
guiding it, especially under present circumstances when con-
siderable versatility was requisite.

The official news of the Coup d'Etat did not reach Plassans
until the afternoon of the 3rd of December — a Thursday. Since
seven o'clock in the evening, there had been a full meeting in
the yellow-drawing-room. Although the crisis was eagerly
desired, a vague uneasiness was depicted on the faces of the
majority. They discussed the events amid endless chatter.

[THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 107

t^ierre, who, like the others was slig-htly pale, thought it right,
as an extreme measure of prudence, to excuse Prince Louis's
decisive act before the Legitimists and Orleanists who were
present.

'•There is talk of an appeal to the people," he said, "the
nation will then be free to choose whatever government it likes.
The president is a man who will retire before our legitimate
masters."

The marquis, who preserved his gentlemanly coolness, was
the only one who greeted these words with a smile. The
others, in the enthusiasm of the moment, concerned themselves
very little about what would follow. All their opinions
foundered. Roudier, forgetting the esteem which as a former
shopkeeper he had entertained for the Orleanists, stopped
Pierre rather abruptly. Everybody exclaimed :

"Don't argue the matter. Let us think of preserving
order."

These good people were terribly afraid of the republicans.
The town, however, had only experienced a slight commotion
on the announcement of the events at Paris. Crowds had
collected in front of the notices posted on the door of the Sub-
Prefecture ; it was also rumoured that a few hundred workmen
had left their work and were endeavouring to organise resist-
ance. ■ That was all. Xo serious disturbance seemed likely to
occur. The attitude assumed by the neighbouring cities and
towns was, however, anything but reassuring ; but it was not
so far known in what manner they had received the news of
the Coup d'fitat.

Granoux arrived at about nine o'clock, quite out of breath.
He had just left a sitting of the Municipal Council convoked
on urgent business. In a voice stifled with emotion he
announced that the ma3^or. Monsieur Gar^onnet, had declared,
with due reserve, that he was determined to preserve order by
the most stringent measures. But the intelligence which pro-
duced the most noisy brawling in the yellow drawing-room
was that of the resignation of the sub-prefect. This functionary
had absolutely refused to communicate the despatches of the
Minister of the Interior to the inhabitants of Plassans ; he had
just left the town, Granoux asserted, and it was through the
mayor's intercession that the messages had been posted.
He was perhaps the only sub-prefect in France who ever had
the courage of his democratic opinions.

108 THE FORTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

Although Monsieur Gar^onnet's firm attitude caused the
Rougons some secret anxiet^^ they rubbed their hands at the
flight of the sub-prefect, which left the post vacant for them.
It was decided on this memorable evening that the j^ellow
drawing-room party should accept the Coup d'etat and declare
openly that they were in favour of accomplished facts. Vuillet
was commissioned to write an article immediately to that
effect, and publish it on the morrow in the " Gazette." Neither
he nor the marquis raised any objection. They had, no doubt,
received instructions from the mysterious individuals to whom
they sometimes made devout allusions. The clergy and the
nobility had already determined to lend a strong hand to the
victors, in order to crush their common enemy, the Eepublic.

While the yellow drawing-room was deliberating on the
evening in question, Aristide's anxiety brought a cold perspira-
tion upon him. Never had a gambler, staking his last louis on
a card, felt such anguish. During the day the resignation of
his chief had given him much matter for reflection. He had
heard him repeat several times that the Coup d'Etat must prove
a failure. This functionary, who was endowed with a limited
amount of honesty, believed in the final triumph of the democracy,
although he had not the courage to work for this triumph by
offering resistance. Aristide was in the habit of listening at
the doors of the Sub-Prefecture, in order to get some precise
information ; he felt that he was walking in the dark, and clung
to the intelligence which he gleaned from the administration.
The sub-prefect's opinion struck him, causing him considerable
perplexity. He thought to himself : " Why does he go away
if he is so certain the prince-president will meet with a check ? "
However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or the other,
he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote an article
very hostile to the Coup d'jfetat, which he took to the " Inde-
pendant " the same evening for the following morning's issue.
He had corrected the proofs of this article, and was returning
home somewhat calmed, when, as he was passing along the
Eue de la Banne, he mechanically raised his head and glanced
at the Rougons' windows. These windows were brilliantly
illuminated.

*' What can they be plotting up there ? " the journalist asked
himself, with anxious curiosity.

A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-
room in regard to recent events assailed him. He credited this

THE rORTtJXE OF THE ROUGONS. 109

group of reactionaries with a moderate amount of intelligence ;
but his doubts recurred, he was in that frame of mind when
one would seek advice from a four-year-old child. He could
not think of entering his father's home at that time, after the
campaign he had waged against Granoux and the others. He
went up, however, thinking of the singular figure he would
present if he were surprised on the staircase by any one.
Arrived at the Rougons' door, he could only catch a confused
sound of voices.

'* What a child I am," said he, " fear makes me stupid."

And he was about to descend again, when he heard his
mother seeing somebod}^ out. He had only just time to hide
himself in a dark corner formed by a little staircase leading to
the garret of the house. The door opened, and the marquis
appeared, followed by Felicite. Monsieur de Carnavant usually
left before the gentlemen of the new town, no doubt to avoid
having to shake hands with them in the street.

" Eh ! little one," he said on the landing, in a hushed voice,
*' these men are greater cowards than I should have thought.
With such men France will always be at the mercy of whoever
dares to lay hands upon her ! "

And he added with some bitterness, as though speaking to
himself :

" The monarchy is decidedly becoming too good for modern
times. Its day is at an end."

" Eugene had announced the crisis to his father," Felicite
said, " Prince Louis's triumph seems to him certain."

"Oh, you can proceed without fear," the marquis replied, as
he descended the first steps. " In two or three days the
country will be well bound and gagged. Good-bye till to-
morrow, little one."

Felicite closed the door again. Aristide, in his dark corner,
was bewildered. Without waiting till the marquis had reached
the street, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time,
rushed outside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the
printing-office of the " Independant." A flood of thoughts
rushed to his mind. He was enraged, and accused his family
of having duped him. What! Eugene kept his parents
informed of the situation, and j^et his mother had never given
him any of his eldest brother's letters to read, in order that he
might have followed blindly the advice given therein ! And it
was only at this moment he learnt by chance that his eldest

t)

110 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOKS.

brother regarded the success of the Coup d'Etat as certain!
This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain presentiments of
his which that idiot of a sub-prefect had prevented him from
obeying. He was especially exasperated against his father,
whom he thought stupid enough for a Legitimist, but who
revealed himself at the right moment as a Bonapartist.

" They have allowed me to perpetrate all these follies," he
muttered as he ran along. " I'm a fine fellow now. Ah ! what
a school ! Granoux is more capable than I."

He entered the offices of the "Independant" like a hurricane,
and asked for his article in a clroking voice. The article had
already been imi^osed. He had the form unlocked, and would
not rest until he had himself destroyed the article, mixing the
type in a furious manner, like a set of dominoes. The book-
seller who managed the paper looked at him in amazement.
He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as the article
seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutely
compelled to have some copy, if he wished the "Independant"
to appear.

" Are you going to give me something else ? " he asked.

" Certainl}'," replied Aristide.

He sat down at the table and commenced a very warm
panegyric on the Coup d'Etat. In the very first line, he swore
that Prince Louis had just saved the Republic ; but he had
hardly written a page before he stopped and seemed to be at
a loss how to continue. His pole-cat face assumed a troubled
look.

" I must go home," he said at last. " I will send you this
immediately. Your paper can appear a little later, if necessary."

He walked slowly on his wa}^ home, lost in reflection. He
was again giving way to indecision. AYhy should he veer
round so quickly ? Eugene was an intelligent fellow, but his
mother had perhaps exaggerated the significance of a single
sentence in his letter. In any case, it would be better to wait
and hold his tongue.

An hour later Angele called at the bookseller's, feigning
deep emotion.

"My husband has just severely injured himself,'^ she said.
" He jammed his four fingers in a door as he was coming in.
In spite of his acute sufferings, he has dictated this little note,
which he begs you to publish to-morrow."

On the following day the " Independant," made up almost

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. Ill

entirely of various items of news, appeared with these few lines
at the head of the first column : —

" A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent
contributor Monsieur Aristide Rougon will deprive us of his
articles for some time. He will cruelly feel this silence under
the present grave circumstances. None of our readers will
doubt, however, the good wishes which his patriotism cherishes
for the welfare of France."

This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last
sentence could be explained in favour of all parties. By this
expedient, Aristide arranged a glorious return for himself after
the victory, by means of a panegyric on the victors. On the
following day he showed himself to all the town, with his arm
in a sling. His mother, frightened by the notice in the paper,
hastened to him, but he refused to show her his hand and spoke
"with a harshness which the old woman knew how to interpret.

*' It's not very bad," she said in a reassuring and somewhat
sarcastic tone, as she was leaving. " You only want a little
rest."

It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident, and to
the sub-prefect's departure, that the " Independant " was not
interfered with, like most of the democratic papers of the
departments.

The 4th day of the month was comparatively quiet at
Plassans. In the evening there was a public demonstration
which the mere appearance of the gendarmes sufficed to dis-
perse. A band of working men came to demand of Monsieur
Gar9onnet the communication of the despatches he had received
from Paris, which the latter haughtily refused ; as they with-
drew the band shouted : " Long live the Republic ! Long live
the Constitution." After this, order was restored. The yellow
drawing-room, after commenting at some length on this
innocent parade, decided that affairs were going on excellently.

The 5th and 6th were, however, more disquieting. Intelli-
gence was received, successively, of the insurrection of the small
neighbouring towns ; the entire southern portion of the depart-
ment had taken up arms ; La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx
were the first to rise, leading behind them the villages of Cha-
vanos, Nazeres, Poujols, Yalqueyras and Vernoux. The yellow
drawing-room party was now becoming seriously alarmed. It
was especially uneasy at seeing Plassans isolated in the very

112 THE FOBTUXE OF THE notJG057S.

midst of the revolt. Bands of insurgents would certainly scour
the country and cut off all communications. Grauoux announced,
with a terrified look, that the maj^or was without any news.
Some people even asserted that blood had been shed at Mar-
seilles, and that a formidable revolution had broken out in Paris.
Commander Sicardot, enraged at the cowardice of the middle-
class citizens, vowed he would die at the head of his men.

On Sunday the 7th the terror had reached its height. Since
six o'clock, the yellow drawing-room, where a sort of reaction-
ary committee held a permanent sitting, had been crowded
with a host of men, pale and trembling, who conversed with
each other in undertones, as though they were in a chamber of
death. It had been ascertained during the day that a column
of insurgents, about three thousand strong, had assembled at
Alboise, a borough not more than three leagues away. It was
true that this column had been ordered to make for the chief ^
town, leaving Plassans on its left ; but the plan of the campaign
might at any time be altered ; moreover, it was quite enough
for these cowardly gentlemen to know that there were insur-
gents a few miles off, to make them feel the horny hands of the
working-men already tightened round their throats. They had
had a foretaste 'of the revolt in the morning ; the few repub-
licans at Plassans, seeing that they would be unable to make
any determined move in the town, had resolved to join their
brethren of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx; the first group
had left at about eleven o'clock, by the Porte de Rome,
shouting the " Marseillaise " and smashing a few windows.
Granoux had one of his broken. He mentioned the circum-
stance with stammerings of terror.

In the meantime, the most acute anxiety was agitating the
yellow drawing-room. The commander had sent his servant
to obtain some information as to the movements of the insur-
gents, and they awaited this man's return, making the most
astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting. Roudier and
Granoux, sinking into their arm-chairs, exchanged the most
pitiable glances, M^hilst behind them moaned the terror-
stricken group of retired tradesmen. Vuillet, without appear-
ing too scared, was thinking what precautions he should take
to protect his shop and person ; he was deliberating whether
he should hide himself in his garret or cellar, and inclined
towards the cellar. Pierre and the commander walked up and
down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old oil-dealer

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 113

clung" to his friend Sicardot, to borrow a little courag-e from
him. He had been awaiting- the crisis for such a long time,
and now endeavoured to keep his countenance, in spite of the
emotion which was stifling him. As for the marquis, more
spruce and smihng than ordinarily, he conversed in a corner
with Felicite, who seemed very gay.

At last a ring came. These gentlemen started as if ihey
had heard the report of a gun. A dead silence reigned in
the drawing-room as Felicite went to open the door, towards
which their pale, anxious faces were turned. The commander's
servant appeared on the threshold, quite out of breath, and
said abruptly to his master :

*' Sir, the insurgents will be here in an hour."

'This was a thunderbolt. They all started up, vociferating

and raising their arms towards the ceiling. For several

minutes it was impossible to hear one's-self speak. They all

surrounded the messenger, overwhelming him with questions.

"Damnation!" the commander at length shouted, "don't
make such a row. Do be calm, or I won't answer for any-
thing."

Every one sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn
sighs. They could not get any details. The messenger had
met the column at Les Tulettes, and had hastened to return.

*' There are at least three thousand of them," he said.
" They are marching in battalions, like soldiers. I thought I
caught sight of some prisoners in their midst.'*

" Prisoners ! " cried the terrified citizens.

" There's no doubt about it," the marquis broke in with his
flutey voice. " I've heard that the insurgents arrest all persons
who are known to have conservative leanings."

This piece of information completed the consternation of the
yellow drawing-room. A few citizens got up and stealthily
made for the door, reflecting that they had not too much time
before them to gain a place of safety.

The announcement of the arrests made by the republicans
appeared to strike Fehcite. She took the marquis aside and
asked him :

" What do these men do with the people they are

arrestmg .''

" Why, thej^ carry them off in their train," Monsieur de
Carnavant replied. " They no doubt consider them excellent

hostages"

114 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. . ■•

" Ah ! " the old woman rejomed, in a strange tone.

She composed herself to follow in a thoughtful manner the
curious scene of panic which was enacting in the drawing-
room. The citizens gradually disaj^peared ; very soon there
remained only Vuillet and Roudier, whom the approaching
danger inspired with courage. As for Granoux, he likewise
remained in his corner ; his legs refusing to perform their
function.

" Faith ! I like this better," Sicardot remarked, as he
observed the flight of the other adherents. " The cowards were
exasperating me at last. For more than two years they've
been speaking of shooting all the republicans in the country,
and to-day they wouldn't even fire a halfpenny cracker under
their noses."

He took up his hat and turned towards the door.

" Let's see," he continued, " time presses. Come, Rougon."

Felicite seemed to be waiting for this moment. She placed
herself between the door and her husband, who, for that matter,
was not very eager to follow the formidable Sicardot.

" I don't want you to go out," she cried, feigning a sudden
despair. '' I won't let you leave my side. Those scoundrels
will kill you."

The commander stopped in amazement.

"Hang it all!" he growled, "if the women are going to
whine now — Come along, Rougon ! "

" No, no," continued the old woman, affecting an exaggerated
terror, " he sha'n't follow you. I will hang on to his clothes
and prevent him."

The marquis, very much surprised at the scene, looked
inquiringly at Felicite. Was this really the woman who was
just now conversing so merrily ? What comedy was she
playing ? Pierre, of course, seeing that his wife wanted to
detain him, pretended he would go out by all means.

" I tell you you shall not go out," the old woman reiterated,
as she clung to one of his arms.

And turn in o;- towards the commander :

" How can you think of offering any resistance ? They
are three thousand strong, and you won't be able to gather
together a hundred men of any spirit. You are rushing into
the cannon's mouth to no purpose."

" Eh ! that is our duty," said Sicardot, impatiently,

Felicite burst into sobs.

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 115

"If they don't kill him, they'll make him a prisoner," she
continued, looking fixedly at her husband. "Good heavens!
AVhat will become of me, left alone in an abandoned town ? "

" But," exclaimed the commander, " don't you think we
shall be arrested just the same if wo allow the insurgents to
enter the town unmolested ? I vow that before an hour has
passed, the mayor and all the functionaries will be prisoners,
to say nothing- of your husband and the frequenters of this
drawing-room."

The marquis thought he saw a vague smile play about
Felicite's lips as she answered, with a scared look:

" Do you think so ? "

"Of course ! " replied Sicardot, " the republicans are not so
stupid as to leave enemies behind them. To-morrow Plassans
will be emptied of its functionaries and good citizens."

At these words, which she had cleverly provoked, Felicite
released her husband's arms. Pierre no longer looked as if he
wanted to go out. Thanks to his wife, whose prudent tactics
escaped him however, and whose secret complicity he never
for a moment suspected, he had just caught a glimpse of a whole
plan of campaign.

"We must deliberate before taking any decision," he said
to the commander. " My wife is perhaps not wrong in accus-
ing us of forgetting the true interests of our families."

"No, indeed, madame is not wrong," cried Granoux, who
had been listening to Felicite's terrified cries with the rapture
of a coward.

The commander clapped his hat on his head with an energetic
action, and said in a clear voice :

" Right or wrong, it matters little to me. I am commander
of the National Guard. I ought to have been at the mayor's
before this. Confess that you are afraid, that j^ou leave me to
act alone. So good-night."

He was just turning the handle of the door, when Rougon
forcibly detained him.

" Listen, Sicardot," he said.

He drew him into a corner, as he saw Vuillet prick up his
big ears. There he explained to him, in an undertone, that it
would be a good plan to leave some energetic men behind the
insurgents, who could restore order in the town. As the fierce
commander obstinately refused to desert his post, Pierre offered
to place himself at the head of the reserve corps.

116 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

" Give me the key of the cart-shed in which the arms and
ammunition are kept," he said to him, " and order some fifty
of our men not to stir until I call for them."

Sicardot ended by consenting to these prudent measures.
He entrusted Pierre with the key of the cart-shed, convinced
himself of the inexpediency of present resistance, but still
desirous of sacrificing himself.

During this conversation, the marquis whispered a few words
in Felicite's ear with a knowing look. He was complimenting
her, no doubt, on her theatrical display. The old woman could
not repress a gentle smile. And, as Sicardot shook hands with
liougon and was preparing to go :

'• Are 3^ou determined to leave us ? " she asked him, resuming
her bewildered look.

"One of Napoleon's old soldiers will never allow himself to
be intimidated by the mob," he replied.

He was already on the landing, when Granoux hurried after
him, crying :

" If you are going to the mayor's tell him what's going on.
I'll just run home to my wife to reassure her."

Felicite now bent towards the marquis's ear, and whispered
with discreet gaiety :

" Faith ! I prefer that this devil of a commander should go
and get himself arrested. He's too zealous."

Meanwhile, Rougon had brought Granoux back to the
drawing-room. Roudier, who quietly followed the scene from
his corner, giving his support by gestures to the proposed
measures of prudence, got up and joined them. When the
marquis and Vuillet had likewise risen, Pierre said :

"Now that we are alone, among peaceable men, I propose
that we conceal ourselves to avoid certain arrest, so that
when we again become the stronger party, we shall be free."

Granoux was ready to embrace him. Roudier and Vuillet
breathed more easily.

" I shall want you shortl}^ gentlemen," the oil-dealer
continued, with an air of importance. " It is for us that the
honour of restoring order in Plassans is reserved."

" You may rely upon us ! " cried Vuillet, with an enthusiasm
which troubled Felicite.

Time was pressing. These singular defenders of Plassans,
who hid themselves in order to render the town more secure,
hastened to bury themselves at the bottom of some hole,

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 117

Pierre, left alone with his wife, advised her not to make the
mistake of barricading- herself in, but to repl}'', if anybody came
to question her, that he, Pierre, had gone for a short journey.
And as she acted the simpleton, feig-ning- terror and asking*
what all this was coming to, he replied abruptly :

" That's nothing to do with you. Let me manage our affairs
alone. They'll get on all the better."

A few minutes later he was threading his way rapidly along
the Kue de la Banne. Arrived at the Cours Sauvaire, he saw
a band of armed workmen leaving the old quarter and singing
the " Marseillaise."

" By Jove ! " he thought. " It was quite time, indeed ; why
here's the town in revolt now ! "

lie quickened his steps in the direction of the Porte de Rome.
A cold perspiration came over him while he was waiting there
for the dilatory guard to open the gate. As soon as he set
foot on the main road, he perceived in the moonlight at the
other end of the Faubourg the column of insurgents, whose
guns were emitting little white flames. He ran as fast as his
legs would carry him, dived into the Impasse Saint-Mittre,
and reached his mother's house, where he had not been for
many a long year.

H

118

CHAPTER IV.

Antoine Macquakt returned to Plassans after the fall of
Napoleon. He had had the incredible good fortune to escape
all the final and murderous campaig-ns of the Empire. He had
moved from barrack to barrack, dragging on his stultifying
military existence. This mode of life completed the develop-
ment of his natural vices. His idleness became deliberate ;
his intemperance, which brought him a countless number of
punishments, was, to his mind, a veritable religious observance.
But that which above all made him the worst of scape-graces
was the supercilious disdain which he entertained for the poor
devils who had to earn their bread.

" I've got money waiting for me at home," he often said to
his comrades ; " when I've served my time, I shall be able to
live like a gentleman."

This belief, together with his stupid ignorance, prevented
his promotion even to the grade of corporal.

Since his departure, he had never spent a day's furlough at
Plassans, as his brother invented a thousand pretexts to keep
him at a distance. He was therefore completely ignorant of
the adroit manner in which Pierre had got possession of their
mother's fortune. Adelaide, in her profound indifference, did
not even write to him three times to tell him how she was go-
ing on. The silence which generally greeted his numerous
requests for money did not awaken the least suspicion in him ;
Pierre's stinginess sufficed to explain to Antoine the difficulty
he experienced in securing from time to time a miserable
twenty-franc piece. This, however, only increased his ani-
mosity towards his brother, who left him to languish in
military service in spite of his formal promise to purchase his
discharge. He vowed to himself that on his return he would
no longer submit like a child, but would flatly demand his share
of the fortune to enable him to live as he pleased. In the -
coach which conveyed him home he dreamed of a delightful
life of idleness. The shattering of his castles in the ah' was
terrible. When he reached the Faubourg, and could no longer

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. * 119

recognise the Fouques' plot of ground, he was stupefied. He
was compelled to ask for his mother's new address. There a
terrible scene occurred. Adelaide calmly informed him of the
sale of the property. lie fell into a rage, and even raised his
hand against her.

The poor woman kept repeating :

" Your brother has taken everything ; it was understood^
that he would take care of you."

At last he left her and ran off to see Pierre, whom he had
informed of his return, and who was prepared to receive him
in such a way as to put an end to the matter at the first word
of abuse.

" Listen," the oil dealer said to him, affecting a distant
coldness, " don't rouse my anger or I'll turn j-ou out. As a
matter of fact I don't know you. We don't bear the same
name. It's quite misfortune enough for me that my mother
has misconducted herself without having her bastards coming
here and insulting me. I was w^ell disposed towards you, but
since you are insolent I shall do nothing for you, absolutely
nothing."

Antoine was almost chokino^ with raf]:e.

" And what about my money," he cried ; " will you give it
up, you thief, or shall I have to drag you before the magis-
trate ? "

Pierre shrugged his shoulders.

" I've got no money of j^ours," he replied, gradually
becoming calmer. " My mother disposed of her fortune as she
thought proper. I am certainly not going to poke my nose
into her business. I willingly renounced all hope of an
inheritance. I am quite safe from j^our foul accusations."

And as his brother, exasperated by this composure, and not
knowing w^hat to think, muttered something, Pierre thrust
Adelaide's receipt under his nose. The reading of this scrap
of paper completed Antciine's disma}^

"Very well," he said, in a calmer voice, "I know now
what I have to do."

The truth was, however, he did not know what to do. His
inability to hit upon any immediate expedient for obtaining
his share of the money and satisfying his desire for revenge,
exasperated him furiously. lie went back to his mother and
subjected her to a disgraceful cross-examination. The
wretched woman could do nothing but refer him to Pierre.

120 • THE FORTUNE OF TEE EOUGONS.

" Do you think j'ou are going- to make me run to and fro
like a shuttle ? " he cried, insolently. " I'll soon find out which
of you two has the hoard. You've already devoured it,
perhaps ? "

And making an allusion to her former misconduct he asked
her if she had not still some low fellow to whom she gave her
last sous ? He did not even spare his father, that drunkard
Macquart, as he called him, who must have lived on her till
the day of his death, and who left his children in poverty.
The poor woman listened with a stupefied air ; big tears rolled
down her cheeks. She defended herself with the terror of a
child, replying to her son's questions as though he were a
judge; she swore that she was living respectably, and
reiterated with emphasis that she had never had a sou, that
Pierre had taken everything. Antoine almost came to believe
it at last.

"Ah! the scoundrel I " he muttered; "that's why he
wouldn't purchase my discharge."

He had to sleep at his mother's house, on a straw mattress
placed in a corner. He had returned with his pockets perfectly
empty, and was chiefly exasperated at finding himself without
any resources, abandoned like a dog in the streets, without
hearth or home, while his brother, as he thought, was in a
good way of business, and living on the fat of the land. As
he had no money to buy clothes with, he went out on the
following day in his regimental cap and trousers. He had the
good fortune to find, at the bottom of a cupboard, an old
yellowish velvet jacket, threadbare and patched, which had
belonged to Macquart. In this strange attire he walked about
the town, relating his story to every one, *and demanding
justice.

The people whom he went to consult received him with a
contempt which made him shed tears of rage. In the provinces
people are inexorable towards fallen families. According to
the general opinion, it was only natural that the Rougon-
Macquarts should seek to devour each other ; the spectators,
instead of separating them, would more likely have urged
them on. Pierre, however, was beginning to purify himself
from his early stigma. People laughed at his roguery; some
persons even went so far as to say that he had acted quite
right, if he really had taken possession of the money, and that
it would be a good lesson to the profligates of the town.

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 121

Antoine returued home discouraged. A lawyer had advised
him, in a scornful manner, to wash his dirty linen at home,
though not until he had skilfully ascertained whether Antoine
possessed the requisite means to carry on a law-suit. Accord-
ing to this man, the case was very involved, the pleadings
would be very lengthy, and success was doubtful. Moreover,
it would require money, and plenty of it.

Antoine treated his mother more harshly that evening ; not
knowing on whom to wreak his vengeance he repeated his
accusation of the previous day ; he kept the wretched woman
up till midnight, trembling with shame and fright. Adelaide
having informed him that Pierre made her an allowance, he
felt certain that his brother had pocketed the fifty thousand
francs. But, in his irritation, he still affected to doubt it, with
a refinement of cruelty which brought him relief. He did not
cease to question her in his insinuating manner, by which he
made it appear that he still believed she had consumed her
fortune in company with her lovers.

" Come now, my father was not the only one," he at last
coarsely observed.

This last blow sent her reeling on to an old chest, where
she lay the whole night sobbing.

Antoine soon found out that, alone and without resources,
he could not successfully carry on a contest against his brother.
He at first endeavoured to gain Adelaide to his cause; au
accusation lodged by her would have serious consequences.
But, at Antoine's first suggestion of it, the poor, lazy, lethargic
woman firmly refused to bring trouble on her eldest son.

" I am a wretched creature," she stammered ; *' you are
quite right to be angry. But, you see, I should feel too much
remorse if I caused one of my sons to be sent to prison. No ;
I'd rather let you beat me."

He saw that he would get nothing but tears this wa}', and
contented himself with sa3'ing that she was justly punished,
and that he had no pity for her. In the evening, Adelaide,
upset by the continued quarrels which her son sought with her,
had one of those nervous attacks which kept her as rigid as
death, with her eyes open. The young man threw her on her
bed ; then, without even loosening her garments, he began to
rummage about the house to see if the wretched woman had
no savings hidden away somewhere. He found about forty
francs. He took possession of them, and, while his mother

122 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

was lying" there, rigid and unable to breathe, he quietly took
the Marseilles dilig-ence.

He had just bethought himself that Mouret, the journeyman
hatter who had married his sister Ursule, must be indignant at
Pierre's roguery, and would no doubt be willing to defend his
wife's interests. But he did not find in him the man he ex-
pected. Mouret plainly told him that he had become accus-
tomed to look upon Ursule as an orphan, and he would have
no contention with her family at any price. Their affairs were
prospering. Antoine was received so coldly that he hastened
to take the diligence back. But, before leaving, he was
anxious to revenge himself for the secret contempt which he
read in the workman's look; and observing that his sister
appeared rather pale and dejeoted, he said to her husband, in
a slyly cruel way, as he took his departure :

'* Take care, my sister was always sickly, and I find her
much changed for the worse ; you may lose her altogether."

The tears which rushed to Mouret's eyes convinced him
that he had touched a sore wound. But those work-people
made too great a display of their happiness.

When he was back again in Plassans, Antoine became more
menacing, from having assured himself of his absolute impo-
tence. He was to be seen all over the place for a whole month.
He paraded the streets, recounting his history to all who would
listen to him. Whenever he succeeded in extorting a franc
from his mother, he would go and drink it away at some
tavern where he would revile his brother, declaring that the
rascal should hear from him shortly. In places like these, the
good-natured fraternity which reigns among drunkards pro-
cured him a sympathetic audience ; all the scum of the town
espoused his cause, and poured forth bitter imprecations
against that beggar Rougon, who left a brave soldier to
starve. Their meetings generally terminated with an indis-
criminate condemnation of the rich. Antoine, with a refine-
ment of vengeance, continued to march about in his regimental
cap and trousers and his old yellow velvet jacket, although his
mother had offered to purchase some more becoming clothes
for him. He displayed his rags, and paraded them on Sunday
in the most frequented parts of the Cours Sauvaire.

One of his most exquisite pleasures was to pass in front of
Pierre's shop ten times a day. He would extend the holes in
his jacket with his fingers, slacken his step, and sometimes

MACQUART AFTER HIS RETURN FROM THE ARMY.

p. 122.

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 123

stand talking" in front of the door, so as to remain in the street
longer. On these occasions he used to bring- one of his drunken
friends who would gossip with him ; he would tell him about
the theft of the fifty thousand francs, accompanying- his
narrative with insults and menaces, uttered in loud tones which
could be heard by every one in the street, taking- particular
care that his abuse should strike home at the furthest end of
the shop.

'' He'll finish by coming- to beg in front of our house,"
Felicite used to say in despair.

The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal.
She even at this time felt some regret at ever having- married
Rougon ; his family connections were so objectionable. She
would have given all she had in the world to prevent Antoine
parading his rags. But Pierre, who was maddened by his
brother's conduct, would not allow the latter's name to be
mentioned in his presence. When his wife tried to convince
him that it woulcl perhaps be better to free himself from all
annoyance by giving Antoine a little money :

" No, nothing; not a sou," he cried with rage. '' Let him
starve ! "

He confessed, however, at last that Antoine's demeanour was
becoming intolerable. One day Felicite, desiring to put an end
to it, called "that man," as she styled him with a disdain-
ful curl on her lip. " That man " was in the act of calling her
a rogue in the middle of the street, where he w^as standing
with one of his friends, even more ragged and tattered than he.
They were both drunk.

" Come, the}^ want us in there," said Antoine to his
companion in a jeering tone.

Felicite drew back, muttering :

" It's you alone we wish to speak to."

"Bah!" the young man replied, "my friend's a decent
fellow. You needn't mind him hearing. He'll be my witness."

The witness sat down heavily on a chair. He did not take
off his hat, but began to stare around him, with that maudlin,
stupid grin of drunkards and coarse people who want to be
insolent. Felicite, ashamed, stood in front of the shop door so
that people outside could not see what strange company she
was entertaining. Fortunately her husband came to the
rescue. A violent quarrel ensued between him and his brother.
The latter, whose thick speech was entangled in abuse, reiterated

124 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS.

his old grievances twenty times over. At last he began to cry,
and his companion was very near following his example.
Pierre defended himself in a very dignified manner.

" Look here," he said at last, *' 3-ou're unfortunate, and I'm
very sorry for you. Although you have cruelly insulted me,
I can't forget that we are children of the same mother. If I
give 3'ou anj'thing, however, you must understand I give it
you out of kindness, and not from fear. Would you like a
hundred francs to help you out of your difficulties ? "

This abrupt offer of a hundred francs dazzled Antoine's
companion. He looked at him with an air of delight, which
clearly signified : "As the gentleman offers a hundred francs,
it is time to leave off abusing him." Antoine, however, was
determined to speculate on his brother's favourable attitude
towards him. He asked him whether he took him for a fool ;
it was his share, ten thousand francs, he wanted.

*' You're wrong, you're wrong," stuttered his friend.

At last, as Pierre, losing all patience, was threatening to
turn them both out, Antoine modified his demands and claimed
only one thousand francs. They quarrelled for another quarter
of an hour over this figure. At last Felicite interfered. A
crowd was gathering round the shop.

" Listen," she said, excitedly, " my husband will give you
two hundred francs. Til undertake to buy you a suit of
clothes, and hire a room for a year for you."

Kougon got angry. But Antoine's comrade cried with
transports of jo3\

" All right, it's settled, then ; my friend accepts."

Antoine did, in fact, declare, in a gruff tone, that he would
accept. He felt he would not be able to get any more. It
was arranged that the money and clothes should be sent to him
on the following day, and that a few da^'s later, as soon as
Felicite had found a room for him, he should tal^e up his
quarters there. As they were leaving, the young man's intoxi-
cated companion became as respectful as he was previously
insolent. He bowed to the company more than ten times, in an
awkward and humble manner, muttering some indistinct thanks,
as if the Rougons' gifts had been intended for him.

A week later Antoine occupied a large room in the old quarter
in which Felicite, exceeding her promises, had placed a bed, a
table, and some chairs, on the young man formally undertaking
not to molest them in future. Adelaide felt no regret at her

THE roRTTTNE OF THE EOUGONS. 125

son's departure ; she was condemned to bread and water for
more than three months by the short stay he had made in her
house. Antoine had soon eaten and drunk the two hundred
francs. He never thought, for a moment, of investing- them in
some little business which would have helped him to live. When
he was again penniless, having no trade, and averse, moreover,
to any regular work, he wished to dive again into the Kougons'
purse. Circumstances, however, were not the same as before,
and he failed to intimidate them. Pierre even took advantage of
this opportunity to turn him out, and forbade him to ever set foot
again in his house. It was of no avail for Antoine to repeat
his former accusations. The townspeople, who were acquainted
with his brother's munificence from the publicity which Felicite
had given to it, condemned him and called him a lazy, idle
fellow. In the meantime, hunger was pressing. He threatened
to turn smuggler like his father, and perpetrate some crime
Avhich would dishonour his famil3\ The Rougons shrugged
their shoulders ; they knew he was too much of a coward to
risk his neck. At last, blindl}^ enraged against his relatives in
particular and society in general, Antoine made up his mind to
seek some work.

In a tavern of the Faubourg he had made the acquaintance
of a basket-maker who worked at home. He offered to help
him. In a short time he learnt to plait baskets and hampers —
a coarse and poorly-paid kind of labour which finds a ready sale,
lie was ver}^ soon able to work on his own account. This
trade pleased him as it was not too laborious. He could still in-
dulge his idleness, and that was what he cared for above every-
thing. He would take to his work when he was no longer
able to do otherwise, hurriedly plaiting a dozen baskets which
he would go and sell in the market. As long as the money
lasted he lounged about, visiting all the taverns and digesting
in the sunshine. Then, when he had fasted a whole day, he
would take up his twigs of osier with low growls, reviling the
wealthy who live in idleness. The trade of a basket-maker,
when followed in such a manner, is a very thankless one. His
work would not have sufficed to pay for his drinking bouts, if
he had not contrived a means of procuring his osier at a low
cost. As he never bought any at Plassans, he used to say that
he went every month to purchase a stock at a neighbouring
town, where he pretended it was sold cheaper. The fact of the
matter was, however, he used to supply himself from the osier-

126 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

grounds of the Viorne, when the nig-hts were dark. The rural
policeman even caught him once in the very act, and xintoine
underwent a few days' imprisonment in consequence. It was
from that time forward that he posed in the town as a fierce
republican. He declared that he was quietly smoking his pipe
at the riverside when the rural policeman arrested him. And
he added :

" They would like to get me out of the way because they
know what my opinions are. But I'm not afraid of them, those
rich scoundrels ! "

At the end of ten years of idleness, however, Antoine con-
sidered that he had been working too hard. His constant
dream was to invent some expedient by which he could live at
his ease without having to do anj^thing. His idleness would
never have rested content with bread and water, like certain
lazy persons who are willing to put up with hunger provided
they can keep their hands in their pockets. He liked good
feeding and nothing to do. He talked at one time of taking
a situation as servant in some nobleman's house in the Saint-
Marc quarter. But one of his friends, a gTOom, frightened
him by describing the exacting demands of his masters.
Macquart, sick of his baskets, and seeing the time approach
when he would be compelled to purchase the requisite osier,
was on the point of selling himself as a substitute in the army
and resuming his military life, which he preferred a thousand
times to that of an artisan, when he made the acquaintance of a
woman, whose encounter modified his plans.

Josephine Gavaudan, who was known throughout the town
under the familiar diminutive of Fine, was a tall, strapping-
woman of about thirty years of age. "\Yith a square face of
masculine proportions, and a few terribly long hairs about her
chin and lips, she was considered a superior woman on account
of the weight of her fist Her broad shoulders and enormous
arms consequently inspired all the young urchins with mar-
vellous respect ; and they did not even dare to smile at her
moustache. Notwithstanding all this. Fine had a gentle voice,
thin and clear like that of a child. Those who were acquainted
with her asserted that she was as gentle as a lamb in spite of
her formidable appearance. As she was very hardworking,
she might have put some money aside if she had not had a
partiality for liqueurs. She adored aniseed. She very often
had to be carried home on Sunday evenings.

THE FOKTUNE OF THE ROUGO^^S. 127

During" the vreek she would toil with the stubbornness of an
animal. She had three or four different occupations ; she used
to sell fruits or boiled chestnuts in the market, according to
the season; went out charing for a few well-to-do people;
washed up the plates and dishes at houses where parties were
given, and employed her spare time in mending old chairs.
She was more particularly known in the town as a chair-mender.
In the South a large number of straw-bottomed chairs are used.

Antoine Macquart formed an acquaintance with Fine at the
market. When he went to sell his baskets in the winter he
used to stand at the side of the stove on which she cooked her
chestnuts and warm himself. He was astonished at her courage,
he who was frightened of the least work. By degrees, he dis-
covered beneath the apparent roughness of this strapping
woman the timidity of a latent kindliness. He frequently saw
her give handfuls of chestnuts to the ragged brats who stood
in ecstasy round her smoking pot. At other times, when the
market inspector hustled her, she very nearly began to cry,
apparently forgetting all about her heavy fists. Antoine at last
decided that she was exactly the woman he wanted. She
would work for both and he would Idij down the law at home.
She would be his beast of burden, an obedient indefatigable
animal. As for her partiality for liqueurs, he regarded it as
quite natural. After well weighing the advantages of such an
union, he declared himself to Fine, who was delighted with his
proposal. No man had ever yet ventured to propose to her.
Though she was told that Antoine was the most worthless of
vagabonds she did not feel brave enough to refuse matrimony,
the want of which had long ago been felt by her vigorous
nature. The very evening of the nuptials, the young man took
up his abode in his wife's lodgings in the Kue Civadiere, near
the market. These lodgings, consisting of three rooms, were
much more comfortably furnished than his own, and he gave a
sigh of satisfaction as he stretched himself out on the two
excellent mattresses which covered the bedstead.

Everything went on very well for the first few daj^s. Fine
attended to her various occupations as in the past ; Antoine,
seized with a sort of marital self pride which astonished even
himself, plaited in one week more baskets than he had ever
before done in a month. On the Sunday, however, war broke
out. The couple had a goodly sum of money in the house, and
they spent it freely. In the night, when they were both drunk,

128 THE rORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

they beat each other outrageously, without their being able on
the following day to remember, for the life of them, how the
quarrel had commenced. They had remained on most affec-
tionate terms until about ten o'clock, when i\.ntoine commenced
to beat Fine brutally, while the latter, becoming exasperated
and forgetting her meekness, gave him back as much as she
received. She went to work again bravely on the following
da}^, as though nothing had happened. But her husband, with
sullen rancour, rose late and passed the remainder of the day
smoking his pipe in the sunshine.

From that time forward, the Macquarts adopted the kind of
life which they were destined to lead for the future. It
became, as it were, tacitly understood between them that the
wife should toil and moil to keep her husband. Fine, who had
an instinctive liking for work, did not object. She was as
patient as a saint, provided she had had no drink, considering
it quite natural that her husband should be idle, and even striv-
ing to spare him the most trifling labours. Her little weak-
ness, aniseed, did not make her vicious, but just. On the
evenings when she had forgotten herself, in the presence of a
bottle of her favourite liqueur, if Antoine tried to pick a quarrel
with her, she would set upon him with might and main,
reproaching him with his idleness and ingratitude. The neigh-
bours were accustomed to the periodical disturbances which
broke out in the room of this married couple. The two
battered each other conscientiously ; the wife slapped like a
mother chastising a naughty child ; but the husband, treacherous
and spiteful, measured his blows, and, on several occasions,
very nearly crippled the unfortunate woman.

" You'll look very fine when you've broken one of my arms
or legs," she would say to him. " Who'll keep you then, you
lazy fellow ? "

Excepting for these turbulent scenes, Antoine began to find
his new mode of existence quite endurable. He was well-clothed,
and ate and drank his fill. He had laid aside the basket work
altogether ; sometimes, when he was feeling over-bored, he
would resolve to plait a dozen baskets for the next market-
day ; but very often he did not even finish the first one. He
kept, under a couch, a bundle of osier which he did not use up
in twenty j^ears.

The Macquarts had three children, two girls and a boy.
Lisa, born the first, in 1827, one year after the marriage,

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 129

was not much at home. She was a fine, big", ruddy, healthy-
looking" child, very much resembling her mother. She did not,
however, inherit her animal devotion and endurance. Macquart
had implanted in her a most decided longing- for ease and com-
fort. While she was still a child, she once consented to work
for a whole day in return for a cake. When she was scarcely
seven ^^ears old, the wife of -the postmaster, who was a neigh-
bour of theirs, took a liking to her. She made a little maid of
her. When she lost her husband in 1839, and went to live in
Paris, she took Lisa away with her. The parents had almost
given their daughter to her.

The second girl, Gervaise, born the following year, was a
cripple from birth. Conceived in drunkenness, probably on
one of those disgraceful nights when the husband and wife
had been fighting each other, her right thigh was withered and
deformed, a curious hereditary reproduction of the brutalities
which her mother had had to endure during a fierce drunken
brawl. Gervaise remained pun}^, and Fine, observing her pallor
and weakness, put her on a course of aniseed, under the pre-
text that she required something to strengthen her. The poor
creature became still more emaciated. She was a tall, lank
girl, whose frocks, always too large, hung round her as if they
had nothing under them. Above her emaciated and deformed
body she had a sweet little head hke a doll, a tiny round face,
pale and exquisitely delicate. Iler infirmity almost became
graceful. Her body swa^^ed gently at every step with a sort
of cadenced swing.

The Macquarts' son, Jean, was born three years later. He
was a robust child, recalling in no respect Gervaise's leanness.
Like the eldest girl, he took after his mother, without having
any physical resemblance to her. He was the first to import into
the Rougon-Macquart stock a fat face with regular features,
displaying the indifference of a grave nature wanting in intel-
ligence. This boy grew up with the tenacious desire of some
day making an independent position for himself. He attended
school diligently, racking his dull brain to drum a little arith-
metic and spelling into it. After that he became an ap-
prentice, repeating the same efforts with a perseverance the
more meritorious as it took him a whole day to learn what
others acquired in an hour.

As long as these poor little things remained a burden to the
house, Antoine grumbled. They were useless mouths who

130 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

nibbled his share. He vowed, like his brother, he would have
no more children, those greedy creatures who bring* their
parents to penury. It was something to hear him bemoan his
lot when they were five at table, and the mother gave the best
morsels to Jean, Lisa, and Gervaise.

" That's right," he would growl; " stuff them, make them
burst ! "

Whenever Fine bought a garment or a pair of boots for
them, he would sulk for several da3's afterwards. Ah I if he
had only known, he would never have had that parcel of brats,
which compelled him to limit his smoking to four sous' worth
of tobacco a day, and brought too frequently stewed potatoes
for dinner, a dish which he heartil}^ detested.

Later on, however, as soon as Jean and Gervaise earned
their first francs, he found some good in children after all.
Lisa was no longer there. He lived upon the earnings of the
other two without the least compunction, as he had already
lived upon their mother. It was a very well planned specu-
lation on his part. As soon as she was eight years old, little
Gervaise went to a neighbouring dealer's to crack almonds ; she
earned ten sous a day, which the father pocketed right royall}^,
without even a question from Fine as to what became of the
money. The young girl was next apprenticed to a laundress,
and as soon as she received two francs a day for her work,
the two francs strayed in a similar manner into Macquart's
hands. Jean, who had learnt the trade of a carpenter, was
likewise despoiled on pay-days, whenever Macquart succeeded
in catching him before he had handed the money to his mother.
If the money escaped him, which sometimes happened, he
became frightfully surly. He would stare at his wife and
children in a furious manner for a whole week, picking a
quarrel for nothing, although he was, as yet, ashamed to con-
fess the real cause of his irritation. On the next pay-day he
would be on the watch, and as soon as he had succeeded in
pilfering the youngster's earnings, he would disappear for
days together.

Gervaise, beaten and brought up in the streets with all the
lads of the neighbourhood, became a mother when she was
fourteen years of age. The father of her child was not
eighteen years old. He was a journeyman tanner named
Lantier. Macquart was furious, but he calmed down some-
what when he learnt that Lantier's mother, who was a

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 131

worthy woman, was willing to take cbarg-e of the child. He
kept Gervaise, however; she was already earning twenty-
five sous, and he, therefore, avoided all question of a marriage.
Four years later she had a second child, which was likewise
taken in by Lantier's mother. This time Macquart shut his
eyes altogether. And when Fine timidly suggested that it
was time to come to some understanding with the tanner, in
order to end a state of things which was causing a scandal, he
flatly declared that his daughter should not leave him, and
that he would givelier to her seducer later on " when he was
worthy of her, and had enough money to furnish a home."

This was a fine time for Antoine Macquart. He dressed
like a gentleman, in frock-coats and trousers of the finest
cloth. Cleanly shaved, and grown almost stout, he was no
longer that emaciated, ragged vagabond who used to frequent
the taverns. He dropped into cafes, read the papers, and
strolled on the Cours Sauvaire. He played the gentleman as
long as he had any money in his pocket. On the days of
impecuniosity he remained at home, exasperated at being kept
in his hovel and prevented from taking his customary cup of
coffee. On such occasions he would reproach the whole human
race with his poverty, making himself ill with rage and envy,
until Fine, out of pity, would often give him the last silver
coin in the house so that he could spend his evening at the
cafe. This amiable individual was fiercely selfish. Gervaise,
who brought home as much as sixty francs a month, wore only
thin cotton frocks, while he had black satin waistcoats made
for him by one of the best tailors in Plassans.

Jean, that big lad who earned three or four francs a dajy
was perhaps robbed even more impudentl3\ The cafe where
his father passed entire days was just opposite his master's
workshop, and as he planed or sawed away he could see
" Monsieur " Macquart on the other side of the way, sweetening
his coffee and playing piquet with some little householder. It
was his money that the lazy old fellow was gambling- away.
He never stepped inside a cafe, he never had so much as five
sous to pay for a drink. Antoine treated him like a little girl,
never leaving him a centime, and always demanding an exact
account of the manner in which he had employed his time. 11
the unfortunate lad, led away by some of his mates, wasted a
day somewhere in the country, on the banks of the Viorne, or
on the slopes of the Garrigues, his father would storm and

132 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

almost strike him, bearing a grudge against him for a long
time on account of the four francs less he received at the end
of the fortnight. lie thus held his son in a state of interested
dependence, sometimes even looking upon the sweethearts
whom the young carpenter courted as his own. Several of
Gervalse's friends used to come to the Macquarts' house,
work-girls from sixteen to eighteen years of age, bold and
boisterous girls who, on certain evenings, filled the room with
3^outh and gaiety. Poor Jean, deprived of all pleasure, kept
at home by the lack of money, looked at these girls with
longing eyes ; but the childish life which he was compelled to
lead implanted an invincible shyness in him ; he played with
his sister's friends, although he was hardly bold enough to
touch them with the tips of his fingers. Macquart used to
shrug his shoulders with pity :

" What a simpleton ! " he would mutter, with an air of ironi-
cal superiority.

And it was he who would kiss the j^oung girls, when his
wife's back was turned. He carried his attentions even further
with a little laundress whom Jean pursued rather more
earnestly than the others. One fine evening he stole her
almost from his arms. The old rogue prided himself on his
gallantry.

There are some men who live upon their mistresses.
Antoine Macquart lived on his wife and children with as much
shamelessness and impudence. He did not feel the least com-
punction in pillaging the home and going out to enjoy himself
when the house was bare. He still assumed a supercilious air,
returning from the cafe only to rail bitterly against the poverty
and wretchedness that awaited him at home. He found the
dinner detestable, he called Gervaise a blockhead, and declared
that Jean would never be a man. Immersed in his own
selfish indulgence, he would rub his hands whenever he had
eaten the best piece in the dish ; he would then smoke his pipe,
with short puffs, while the two poor children, broken down
with fatigue, went to sleep on the table. Thus he passed his
days in lazy enjoyment. It seemed to him quite natural that
he should be kept in idleness like a girl, to sprawl about on
the benches of some tavern, or stroll in the cool of the day
alono- the Cours or the Mail. At last he went so far as
to relate his little amorous escapades in the presence of his son,
who listened with eyes of eager longing. The children never

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 133

protested, being* accustomed to see their mother humble her-
self before her husband.

Fine, that strapping- woman who drubbed him soundly
when the}'' were both intoxicated, always trembled before him
when she was sober, and allowed him to rule despotically at
home. He robbed her in the night time of the sous which she
earned during the day at the market, but she never dared to
protest, excepting" by means of veiled rebukes. Sometimes,
when he had devoured the M-eek's money in advance, he ac-
cused her, poor thing-, who worked herself to death, of being-
stupid and not knowing- how to g-et out of difficulties. Fine,
as gentle as a lamb, replied, in her soft, clear voice, which
contrasted so strangel}^ with her larg-e person, that she was no
longer twenty years old, and that money was becoming very
hard to earn. In order to console herself, she used to buy a
pint of aniseed, which she would drink in little glassfuls with
her daughter of an evening, when Antoine had gone back to
the cafe. That was their dissipation. Jean went to bed,
while the two women remained at the table, listening atten-
tively in order to remove the bottle and glasses at the least
sound.

When Macquart was late, they often became intoxicated by
the quantity they drank without thinking of it. Stupefied and
gazing at each other with vague smiles, this mother and
daughter at last began to stutter. Red patches appeared on
Gervaise's cheeks; her delicate little doll's face was bathed
in a look of maudlin beatitude ; nothing was more heart-
rending than to see this M-retched, pale child, inflamed with
drink, wearing an idiotic, drunken smile about her moist lips.
Fine, settled in her chair, became heavy and drowsy. They
sometimes forgot to keep watch, or had not the strength to
remove the bottle and glasses when Antoine's footsteps were
heard on the stairs. On those occasions blows were freely
exchanged among the Macquarts. Jean had to get up to
separate his father and mother and make his sister go to bed,
as she would otherwise have slept on the floor.

Every party has its grotesques and villains. Antoine
Macquart, devoured by envy and hatred, and meditating
revenge against society in general, welcomed the Republic as
a happy era when he would be allowed to fill his pockets from
his neighbour's cash-box, and even strangle the neighbour if
he manifested the least displeasure. His cafe life, tlie articles

I

134 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

he bad read in the papers without understanding them, had
made him a terrible prater, enunciating the strangest pohtical
theories in the world. One must have heard one of these mal-
contents who have ill-digested their reading haranguing in
some provincial smoking-room in order to conceive the degree
of wicked folly at which Macquart had arrived. As he talked
a good deal, had seen active service, and was naturally regarded
as a man of energy and spirit, he was much sought after and
listened to by the simpletons. Although he was not the chief
of any party, he had succeeded in collecting a small group of
workmen who took his jealous ravings for expressions of honest
and conscientious indignation.

As early as February, he persuaded himself that Plassans
was his, and, as he strolled along the streets, the jeering manner
in which he regarded the little retail traders who stood terrified
at their shop doors, clearly signified : " Our day has come, my
lambs ; we are going to lead you a fine dance ! " He had grown
insolent beyond belief ; he enacted his part of the victorious
despot to such a degree, that he ceased to pay for his drinks
at the cafe, and the proprietor, a simpleton who trembled when
Antoine rolled his eyes, never dared to present his bill. The
numbers of cups of coffee he consumed during this time was
incalculable ; sometimes he invited his friends, and shouted for
hours together that the people were dying of hunger, and that
the rich ought to share their wealth with them. He himself
would never have given a sou to a beggar.

What chiefly converted him into a fierce republican was
the hope of at last being able to revenge himself on the
Rougons, who openly ranged themselves on the side of the re-
actionary party. Ah, what a triumph ! if he could only hold
Pierre and Felicite at his mercy ! Although the latter had not
succeeded over-well in business, they had at last become
gentlefolks, while he, Macquart, had remained a working-man.
That exasperated him. Perhaps he was still more mortified
because one of their sons was a barrister, another a doctor,
and the third a clerk, while his son Jean worked at a carpen-
ter's shop only, and his daughter Gervaise at a washerwoman's.
When he compared the Macquarts with the Rougons, he was
still more ashamed to see his wife selling chestnuts in the
market, and mending the greasy old straw chairs of the
neighbourhood in the evening. Pierre, after all, was only his
brother, and had no more right to live fatly on his income than

THE FOETUNE OP THE EOUGONS, 135

he. Moreover, his brother was actually playing" the gentleman
with money stolen from him. Whenever he touched upon this
subject, he became fiercely enraged ; he clamoured for hours
together, repeating to satiety his old accusations, and never
wearying of exclaiming :

"If my brother was where he ought to be, I should be the
mone3'ed man at the present time."

When any one asked him where his brother ought to be, he
would reply, " At the galleys ! " in a formidable voice.

His hatred increased still more when the Rougons had
gathered the group of conservatives round them, and had
acquired a certain influence in Plassans. The famous yellow
drawing-room became, in his hare-brained chatter at the cafe, a
cave of bandits, an assembly of villains who swore every
evening on their daggers to murder the people. In order to
incite the starving populace against Pierre, he went so far as
to circulate a report that the retired oil dealer was not so poor
as he pretended, and that he concealed his treasures through
avarice and fear of robbers. His tactics thus tended to rouse
the poor people by relating the most absurdly ridiculous tales,
which he often came to believe himself at last. His personal
animosity and desire for revenge were ill-concealed under the
veil of his professions of patriotism ; but he was heard so
frequently, he had such a thundering voice, that no one would
have dared to doubt the genuineness of his convictions.

In fact all the members of this family had the same brutish
passions. Felicite, who knew that Macquart's exalted theories
were nothing more than suppressed rage and embittered envy,
would have liked very much to purchase his silence. Unfor-
tunately she was short of money, and did not dare to interest
him in the dangerous game which her husband was playing.
Antoine injured them very much among the well-to-do people
of the new town. It was quite enough that he was a relation
of theirs. Granoux and Roudier reproached them, with
continual scorn, for having such a man in their family. Felicite
. consequently asked herself with anguish how they could
manage to cleanse themselves of this stain.

Later on it seemed to her monstrous and indecent that
Monsieur Rougon had a brother whose wife sold chestnuts,
and who himself lived in crapulous idleness. She at last com-
menced to tremble for the success of their secret intrigues,
which Antoine was compromising at his pleasure. When the

136 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

diatribes which this man fulminated against the j^ellow draw-
ing-room were reported to her, she shuddered at the thought
that he was capable of becoming desperate and ruining all
their hopes by some scandal.

Antoine knew what consternation his demeanour must have
caused the Rougons, and it was sqlely for the purpose of
exhausting their patience that he affected from day to day the
wildest convictions. At the cafe he used to speak of " my
brother Pierre" in a voice which made all the people turn
round ; if he happened to meet some reactionary from the
yellow drawing-room in the street, he would mutter low abuse
which the worthy citizen, amazed at such audacity, would
repeat to the Rougons in the evening, as though he wished to
make them responsible for his disagreeable encounter.

One day Granoux arrived in a state of fury.

" Really," he exclaimed, when scarcely on the threshold,
" it's intolerable : one can't move a step without being in-
sulted."

Then addressing Pierre, he added :

" When one has a brother like yours, sir, one should rid
society of him. I was just quietly walking past the Sub-
Prefecture, when this wretch passed by me muttering some-
thing in which I could clearly distinguish the words ' old
rogue.' "

Felicite turned pale, and felt it necessary to make some
apology to Granoux, but the worthy gentleman refused to
accept any excuses, and threatened to leave altogether. The
marquis exerted himself to arrange matters.

*' It's very strange," he said, " that the wretch should have
called you an old rogue. Are you sure that he intended the
insult for you ? "

Granoux was perplexed ; he admitted, at last, that Antoine
might have muttered : "Do you still go to that old rogue's ? "

Monsieur de Carnavant stroked his chin to conceal the
smile which rose to his lips in spite of himself.

Rougon then said, with the most delightful indifference :

" I thought as much ; the ' old rogue ' was no doubt
intended for me. I'm very glad that this misunderstanding
is now explained. Gentlemen, pray avoid the man in question,
whom I formally repudiate."

Fehcite, however, did not take matters so coolly; every
fresh scandal caused by Macquart made her mor^ uneasy j she

THE FOETDKE OP THE EOUGONS. 137

would sometimes pass the whole night wondering- what the
gentlemen must think of the matter.

A few months before the Coup d'fitat, the Rougons received
an anonymous letter, three pages of foul insults, in which they
were warned that if ever their party should triumph, the
scandalous history of Adelaide's amours would be published in
some paper, together with an account of the robbery perpe-
trated by Pierre, when he compelled his mother, whom
debauchery had made an imbecile, to sign a receipt for fifty
thousand francs. This letter was a heavy blow for Rougon
himself. Felicite could not refrain from reproaching her hus-
band with his disreputable family; for the husband and wife
never doubted for a moment that this letter was Antoine's
work.

" We shall have'to get rid of the blackguard at any price,"
Pierre said in a gloomy tone. " He's becoming too troublesome
by far."

In the meantime, Macquart, resorting to his former tactics,
looked about among his family for accomplices against the
Rougons. He had counted upon Aristide at first, when he read
his terrible articles in the " Independant." But the young man,
in spite of his jealous rage, was not so foolish as to make
common cause with such a fellow as his uncle. He never even
took the trouble to treat him politely, but always kept him at
a respectful distance, a circumstance which induced Antoine to
regard him suspiciously ; in the taverns, where the latter
reigned supreme, people went so far as to say the journalist
was paid to provoke disturbances. Baflled on this side, Mac-
quart had no alternative but to sound his sister Ursule's
children.

Ursule had died in 1839, thus realising her brother's evil
prognostications. Her mother's nervous disease had been con-
verted, in her case, into a slow consumption which gradually
killed her. She left three children : a daughter, eighteen years
old, named Helene, who married a clerk, and two boys, the
eldest, Fran9ois, a young man of twenty-three years, and the
youngest, a sickly little thing scarcely six years old, named
Silvere. The death of his wife, whom he adored, was a
thunderbolt for Mouret. He dragged on his existence for a
year, neglecting his business and losing all the money he had
saved. Then, one morning, he was found hanging in a cup- ^
board where Ursule's dresses were still suspended. His eldest

138 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

son, who had received' a good commercial training", took a
situation in the house of his uncle Rougon, where he replaced
Aristide, who had just quitted it.

Rougon, in spite of his profound hatred for the Macquarts,
gladly welcomed his nephew, who he knew was industrious
and sober. He was in want of a youth whom he could trust,
and who would help him to retrieve his affairs. Moreover,
during the time of Mouret's prosperity, he had learnt to esteem
the young couple, who knew how to make money, and he had
soon become reconciled with his sister. Perhaps he thought
to make Fran9ois some compensation by taking him into his
business ; he had robbed the mother, he would spare himself
:all remorse by giving employment to the son ; even rogues
make honest calculations sometimes. It was a good thing for
him. If the house of Rougon did not make a fortune at this
time, it was certainly through no fault of this quiet, punctilious
youth, who seemed born to pass his life behind a grocer's
counter, between a jar of oil and a bundle of dried cod-fish.
Although physically he resembled his mother very much, he
inherited from his father a just and narrow intelligence, with
an instinctive liking for a methodical life and the safe calcula-
tions of the small trader.

Three months after his arrival, Pierre, pursuing his system
of compensation, married him to his young daughter Marthe,
whom he did not know. how to dispose of. The two young
people fell in love with each other quite suddenly, in a few
days. A peculiar circumstance had doubtless determined and
enhanced their mutual affection. There was a remarkably
close resemblance between them, like that of brother and
sister. Fran9ois inherited, through Ursule, the face of his
grandmother, Adelaide. Marthe's case was still more curious ;
she was an equally exact portrait of Adelaide, although Pierre
Rougon had none of his mother's features distinctly marked ;
the phj'-sical resemblance had taken a leap, as it were, over
Pierre, to reappear more forcibly in his daughter. The
fraternity of the married couple stopped, however, at the face ;
if the worthy son of the steady matter-of-fact hatter was
distinguishable in Francois, Marthe had the wild look, the
mental derangement of her grandmother, of whom she was a
distant, though singularly exact reproduction. Perhaps it was
their combined physical resemblance and moral dissimilarity
which threw them into each others' arms. From 1840 to 1844

O'HE FOPtTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 139

they had three children. Francois remained in his uncle's
employ until the latter retired. Pierre wanted to sell him the
business, but the young- man knew what chance there was of
making a fortune in trade at Plassans ; he declined and went
to Marseilles, where he estabhshed himself with his little
savings.

Macquart soon had to abandon all hope of dragging this big
industrious fellow into his campaign against the Rougons, and,
with the spite of a lazy person, he looked upon him as a
cunning miser. He fancied, however, that he had discovered
the accomplice he was seeking in Mouret's second son, a lad of
fifteen years of age. Young Silvere had never even been to
school at the time when Mouret was found hanging among his
wife's skirts. His eldest brother, not knowing what to do
with the poor little fellow, took him also to his uncle's. The
latter made a wry face on beholding the child ; he had no
intention of carrying his compensation so far as to feed a use-
less mouth. Silvere, to whom Felicite also took a dislike, was
growing up in tears, like an unfortunate little outcast, when his
grandmother, at one of those rare visits which she paid to the
Rougons, took pity on him, and expressed a wish to have him
with her. Pierre was delighted ; he let the child go, without
even suggesting an increase of the meagre allowance he made
Adelaide, and which henceforward would have to suffice for two.

Adelaide was then nearl}^ seventy-five years of age. Grown
old in a cloistered existence, she was no longer the thin and
ardent girl who formerly ran to embrace the smuggler Mac-
quart. She had stiffened and hardened in her hovel in the
Impasse Saint-Mittre, that dismal silent hole wherein she lived
entirely alone on potatoes and dry vegetables, and which she
did not leave once in a month. To see her walking' along,
one would have thought she was one of those old nuns,
delicately white, with automatic gait, severed by the cloister
from all concern in this world. Her pale face, alwa^'s scrupu-
lously enveloped in a white cap, was like the visage of a dying-
woman, a vague, calm countenance bearing an air of supreme
indifference. Her prolonged taciturnity had made her dumb ;
the darkness of her dwelling, the continual sight of the same
objects, had dulled her glance and given to her eyes the
limpidity of spring water. It was a complete self-abnegation,
a slow phj'sical and moral death, which, little by little, had
converted the crazy lover into a grave matron. When her

140 THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGOXS.

eyes were mechanically fixed, gazing* without seeing- anything",
one could perceive a larg-e internal void through those deep
bright cavities.

Nothing now remained of her former voluptuous ardour
but a softness of the flesh and a senile tremor of the hands.
She had loved with the brutishness of a she-wolf, and now
nothing but the insipid odour of withered foliage exhaled from
this miserable, worn-out creature, already sufficiently decom-
posed for the grave. Strange workings of the nerves, of eager
desires which had consumed themselves beneath an involuntary
and compulsory chastity. Her amorous longings, after the
death of Macquart who was indispensable to her existence, had
burned within her, devouring her like a cloistered girl, and yet
she had never for a moment thought of gratifying them. A
life of shame would perhaps have left her less weary, less
stupefied than that state of unsatiated desires procuring their
own gratification by means of slow and hidden ravages which
modified her organism.

Sometimes this moribund, pale old woman, who did not
seem to have any blood left in her, was attacked with nervous
fits like electric shocks which galvanised her, causing her for
an hour an existence of excruciating violence. She remained
on her bed rigid, with her eyes open ; then she was seized with
hiccough, and would writhe and struggle ; she had the fright-
ful strength of those hysterical madwomen who are obliged to
be tied down to prevent them breaking their heads against the
wall. This return to her former vigour, these sudden attacks,
shattered her poor aching body in a heartrending manner. It
seemed as though all the warm passions of her youth were
bursting forth shamefully in her sexagenarian frigidity. When
she came to, she would stagger with such a scared, stupefied
look, that the gossips of the Faubourg used to say : " She's
been drinking, the crazy old thing !"

Little Silvere's childish smile was for her the last pale ray
which communicated some warmth to her frozen limbs. Weary
of solitude, and frightened at the thought of dying alone in one
of her fits, she had asked to have the child. With this little
babe running about her, she felt secure against death. Without
relinquishing her habit of taciturnity, or rendering her auto-
matic movements more supple, she conceived an inexpressible
affection for him. Stiff, speechless, she used to watch him
playing for hours together, listening with delight to the in-

THE FOETUKE OF THE KOUGOXS. Ul

tolerable noise with which he filled the old hovel. This tomb
resounded with uproar from the time that Silvere ran about it,
bestriding broomsticks, knocking himself up against the doors,
shouting and crying. He brought Adelaide back to the world,
as it were ; she looked after him with the most adorable
awkwardness ; she who, in her youth, had neglected the duties
of a mother for the enjoyments of a lover, now felt the divine
pleasures of a young mother in washing his face, dressing him,
and watching untiringly over the frail creature. It was a
re-awakening of love, the soothing of a last passion, which
heaven had granted to this woman who had been completely
ravaged by the want of some one to love. A touching agony
of a heart which had lived in the most acute desires, and which
was now dying in the love of a child.

She was already too dead to pour forth the babbling effu-
sions of good plump grandmothers ; she secretly adored the
child with the bashfulness of a young girl, without knowing
how to fondle him. Sometimes she took him on her knees,
and gazed at him for a long time with her pale e^^es. "When
the little one, frightened by her mute white visage, commenced
to cry, she seemed to be perplexed by what she had done, and
quickly put him down on the floor without even kissing him.
Perhaps she recognised in him a faint resemblance to Macquart
the poacher.

Silvere was always in Adelaide's company as he grew up.
With childish cajolery he used to call her aunt Dide, a name
which ultimately clung to the old woman ; the word " aunt,"
employed in this connection, is simply a term of endearment in
Provence. The child entertained a singular affection, not un-
mixed with respectful terror, for his grandmother. During
one of her nervous fits, when he was quite a little boy, he ran
away from her crying, terrified by her disfigured countenance ;
he came back, timidly, after the attack, but ready to run away
again, just as though the old woman had been well enough to
beat him. Later on, however, when he was twelve years old,
he would stop there bravely, watching in order that she might
not hurt herself by falling off the bed. He stood for hours
holding her tightly in his arms to subdue the rude shocks whicli
contorted her limbs. During the calm intervals he would con-
template with pity her convulsed features, her withered frame,
on which her skirts lay like a shroud. These hidden dramas,
which recurred every month, this old woman as rigid as a

142 THE I'ORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

corpse, this child bent over her, silently watching" for the
return of consciousness, presented, in the darkness of the
hovel, a strange picture of gloomy terror and broken-hearted
tenderness.

When aunt Dide came round, she would get up with diffi-
culty, re-fasten her clothes, and set about her work in the
hovel, without even questioning Silvere. She did not re-
member an}^ thing, and the child, from a sort of instinctive
prudence, avoided the least allusion to what had just taken
place. These recurring fits, more than anything else, strength-
ened Silvere's deep attachment to his grandmother. In the
same manner as she adored him without any garrulous effusive-
ness, he felt a sort of hidden, almost bashful, affection for her.
Although he was really very grateful to her for having taken
him in and brought him up, he could not help regarding her as
an extraordinary creature, a prey to some strange malady,
whom he ought to pity and respect. No doubt there was not
sufficient humanit}'' left in Adelaide ; she was too white and too
stiff for Silvere to fondle round the neck. They lived together
thus, in a melancholy silence, beneath which they felt the
tremor of a boundless love.

This sad, solemn atmosphere, which he had breathed from
his childhood, gave him a strong heart, which harboured
the greatest enthusiasm. He early became a serious, thought-
ful little man, seeking instruction with a kind of stubbornness.
He only learnt a little spelling and arithmetic at the school of
the Christian Brothers, which he was compelled to leave when
he was but twelve years old, on account of his apprenticeship.
He never acquired the first rudiments. He read all the odd
volumes which fell into his hands, and thus formed for himself
a strange baggage ; he had a knowledge of a multitude of
subjects, an ill-digested knowledge, which he could never
classify distinctly in his head. When he was quite young, he
had been in the habit of pla3''ing in the workshop of a master
wheelwright, a worthy man named Vian, who lived at the entrance
of the blind-alley in front of the Aire Saint-Mittre where the
wheelwright stored his timber. He used to jump up on the
wheels of the tilted carts undergoing repairs, and amuse him-
self by dragging along the heavy tools which his tiny hands
could scarcely lift ; one of his greatest pleasures was to assist
the workmen by holding a piece of wood for them or bringing
them the iron- work which they required.

a:HE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 143

When he had grown older he naturally became apprenticed
to Vian ; the latter had taken a liking to the little fellow, who
was always kicking about his heels, and asked Adelaide to let
him have the lad, refusing to take anything for his board and
lodging. Silvere eagerly accepted, alread}'- foreseeing the
time when he would be able to make poor aunt Dide some return
for all she had spent upon him. In a short time, he became an
excellent workman. He cherished, however, more elevated
ambitions. Having once seen, at a coachbuilder's at Plassans,
a fine new carriage, shining with varnish, he vowed he would
one day build such carriages himself. This carriage remained
in his mind as a rare and unique work of art, as an ideal to-
wards which his aspirations should tend. The tilted carts at
which he worked in Yian's shop, those carts which he had lov-
ingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of his affections. He
began to attend the drawing-school, where he formed a con-
nection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent
him his old treatise on geometry. He plunged into this study
without a guide, racking his brains for weeks together in order
to grasp the simplest problem in the world. In this manner he
gradually became one of those learned workmen who can
hardly sign their name and yet talk about algebra as though
it were an intimate friend.

Nothing unsettles the mind so much as this desultory
education, which never reposes on any firm foundation. Most
frequently these scraps of knowledge convey an absolutely
false idea of the highest truths, and render persons of limited
intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvere's case, however, these
scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his liberal aspira-
tions. He was conscious of horizons which were at present
closed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of
those things which were beyond his reach, and contemplated,
with a profound innocent religion, those noble thoughts and
grand conceptions towards which he was raising himself, but
which he did not as yet comprehend. He stood at the threshold
of the temple with a sublime naivete, kneeling before the tapers
which he took from a distance for stars.

The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre consisted, in the
first place, of a large room into which the street door opened.
The only pieces of furniture in this room, which had a stone
floor and served both as a kitchen and a dining-room, were
some straw chairs, a table on tressels, and an old coffer which

141: THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGONS,

Adelaide had converted into a sofa, by spreading" a piece of
cloth over the lid ; in the left hand corner of the large fire-
place stood a plaster image of the Holy Virgin, surrounded
with artificial flowers ; she is the traditional good mother of
all the old Provencal women, however irreligious they may be,
A passage led from the room into the yard situated at the rear
of the house, and in which was a well. Aunt Dide's bedroom
was on the left side of the passage, a narrow little apartment
containing an iron bedstead and one chair ; Silvere slept in a
still smaller room on the right hand side, just large enough for
a folding bedstead ; and he had been obliged to plan a set of
shelves reaching up to the ceiling-, to keep by him all those
dear odd volumes which he used to save his sous to purchase
from a neighbouring second-hand dealer. When he read at
night-time, he would hang his lamp on a nail at the head of
the bed. If his grandmother had an attack, he only had to
leap out at the first gasp to be at her side in a moment.

The young man led the life of a child. He passed his
existence in this deserted spot. Like his father, he felt a
repugnance to public-houses and Sunday strolling. His mates
wounded his delicate susceptibilities by their coarse jokes. He
preferred to read, to rack his brain over some simple
geometrical problem. Since aunt Dide had entrusted him with
the little affairs of the household, she did not go out at all,
living estranged even from her family. The J^oung man
sometimes thought of her forlornness ; he would gaze at this
poor old woman, living but a few steps from those children
who strove to forget her, as though she were dead ; this made
him love her all the more, for himself and for the others.
When he at times entertained a vague idea that aunt Dide was
expiating some former faults, he would say to himself : " I was
born to pardon her."

A nature such as this, ardent and restrained, naturally
cherished the most exalted republican ideas. At night in his
little hovel, Silvere used to read over and over again a work of
Rousseau, which he had picked up at the neighbouring dealer's,
among a number of old locks. The reading of this book kept
him awake till daybreak. In the dream of universal happiness
so dear to the poor, the words liberty, equality, fraternity, rang
in his ears with that sonorous sacred music of the bells, at the
sound of which the faithful fall on their knees. When, there-
fore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed, he

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 145

fancied the whole world would henceforth enjoy a life of
celestial beatitude. His imperfect knowledge made him see
farther than the other workmen, his aspirations did not stop at
his daily bread ; but his excessive ingenuousness, his complete
ignorance of mankind, held him in a state of theoretic phantas}-,
in a Garden of Eden where universal justice reigned. His
paradise was for a long time a delightful spot in which he
forgot himself.

When he came to perceive that everything did not go on
quite satisfactorily in the best of republics he was sorely
grieved, he conceived a different vision, that of compelling men
to be happy even by force. Every act which seemed to him
prejudicial to the interests of the people roused him to revenge-
ful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child, he
cherished the fiercest political animosities. He would not have
killed a fly, and yet he was for ever talking of a call to arms.
Liberty was his passion, an unreasoning, absolute passion, to
which he clung with an enthusiastic devotion. Blinded by this
enthusiasm, he was at once too ignorant and too learned to
allow any toleration, and would place no reliance upon men ;
he required an ideal government of perfect justice and perfect
liberty. It was at this period that his uncle Macquart thought
of pitting him against the Kougons. He persuaded himself
that this young enthusiast would work terrible havoc, if he
were only exasperated to the proper pitch. This calculation
was not altogether devoid of a certain shrewdness.

Antoine, therefore, sought to induce Silvere to visit him by
professing an inordinate admiration for the young man's ideas.
He very nearly compromised the whole matter at the outset. He
had a way of regarding the triumph of the Republic as a question
of personal interest, as an era of happy idleness and endless
junketting, which chilled his nephew's purely moral aspirations.
He perceived that he was on the wrong track and plunged
into a strange pathos, into a string of empty but high-sounding
words, which Silvere accepted as a satisfactory proof of his
civism. Very soon the uncle and nephew saw each other two
or three times a week. During their long discussions, in which
the fate of the country was plainly settled, Antoine endeavoured
to persuade the young man that the Rougons' drawing-room
was the chief obstacle to the welfare of France. But he again
made a false move by calling his mother " old jade " in Silvere's
presence. He even repeated to him the early scandals about

146 THE FORTUNE OF THE BOUGONS.

the poor old woman. The young man blushed for shame, and
listened to him without interruption. He did not ask him for
this information ; he was heartbroken by these confidences,
Avhich wounded his feeling of respectful affection for aunt Dide.

From that time forward he lavished more attention upon his
grandmother, greeting her always with a pleasant smile, and
kind looks full of forgiveness. Indeed, Macquart felt that he
had acted foolishly, and he strove to take advantage of Silvere's
love for Adelaide by charging the Rougons with her forlorn-
ness and povert}^ According to him, he had always been the
best of sons, while his brother had behaved disgracefully ; he
had robbed his mother, and now, when she was penniless, he
was ashamed of her. He never ceased descanting on this
subject. Silvere was indignant with his uncle Pierre, much
to the satisfaction of his uncle Antoine.

The same scenes were enacted every time the young man
called. He used to come in the evening, while the Macquarts
were at dinner. The father would be swallowing some potato
stew with a growl, picking out the pieces of bacon, and follow-
ing the dish with his eyes when it passed into the hands of
Jean and Gervaise.

" You see, Silvere," he would say with a sullen rage which
was ill-concealed under his air of cynical indifference, " more
potatoes, always potatoes ! We never eat anything else now.
Meat is only for rich people. It's getting quite impossible to
make both ends meet v/ith children who have the devil's
appetite and their own too."

Gervaise and Jean bent over their plates, no longer daring
to cut themselves some bread. Silvere, who in his dream lived
in heaven, did not grasp the situation. In a calm voice he
pronounced these storm-laden words :

"But you should work, uncle."

"Ah! yes," sneered Macquart stung to the quick. "You
want me to work, eh ! To let those beggars, the rich folk,
continue to live upon me. I should earn probably twenty sous
a day, and ruin my constitution. It's worth while, isn't it?"

" Every one earns what he can," the young man replied.
" Twenty sous are twenty sous ; and all helps in a home.
Besides, you're an old soldier, why don't you seek some employ-
ment ? "

Fine would then interpose, with a thoughtlessness which
§be soon repented.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 147

" That's what I'm always telling" him," she said. " The
inspector of the market wants an assistant ; I mentioned my
husband to him, and he seems well disposed towards us."

Macquart interrupted her with a fulminating- look.

"Eh! hold your tongue," he growled with suppressed
anger. "Women never know what they're talking about!
Nobody would have me ; my opinions are too well-known."

Every time he was offered a situation he displaj'-ed a similar
irritation, lie did not cease, however, to ask for employment,
though he always refused any that was found for him, assigning*
the most extraordinary reasons. When pressed upon the point
he became terrible.

If Jean were to take up a newspaper after dinner he would
at once exclaim :

"You'd better go to bed. You'll be getting up late to-
morrow, and that'll be another day lost. To think of that
j^oung rascal bringing home eight francs short last week !
However, I've requested his master not to give him his money
in future ; I'll call for it myself."

Jean would go to bed to avoid his father's recriminations.
He had but little sympathy with Silvere ; politics bored him, and
he thought his- cousin " cracked." When only the women re-
mained, if they unfortunately started conversing in whispers
after clearing the table, Macquart would cry :

"Now, you idlers! Is there nothing that requires mend-
ing ? 'WVre all in rags. Look here, Gervaise, I was at your
mistress's to-day, and I learnt some fine things. You're a good-
for-nothing, a gad-about."

Gervaise, a grown-up girl more than twenty 3'ears old,
coloured up at being scolded thus in the presence of Silvere,
who himself felt uncomfortable. One evening, having come
rather late, when his uncle was not at home, he had found the
mother and daughter dead drunk before an empty bottle.
From that time, he could never see his cousin without recall-
ing the disgraceful spectacle of the child, with a maudlin grin
and large red patches on her wretched, pale, diminutive face.
He was not less shocked by the nasty stories circulated with
regard to her. Brought up in a cenobitic chastity, he some-
times looked at her stealthily, witli the timid surprise of a
schoolboy in the presence of a prostitute.

When the two women had taken up their needles, and were
ruinino- their eyesight in order to mend his old shirts, MaC'

148 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

quart, taking the best seat, would repose comfortably, sipping
and smoking like a man who relishes his laziness. This was
the time when the old rogue generally railed against the
wealthy for living on the sweat of the poor man's brow. He
was superbly indignant with the gentlemen of the new town,
who lived in idleness, and compelled the poor people to keep
them in luxury. The fragments of communistic notions which
he culled from the newspapers in the morning assumed the
most grotesque exaggerated forms in his verbal expression of
them. He would talk of the time, which was shortly to arrive,
when no one would be obliged to work. He always, however,
displayed the fiercest animosity towards the Rougons. He
never could digest the potatoes which he had eaten.

" I saw that rascally Felicite buj'ing a chicken in the market
this morning," he used to sa3\ " Those robbers of inheritances
must eat chicken, forsooth ! "

" Aunt Dide," Silvere would interpose, " says that uncle
Pierre was very kind to 3'ou when you left the army. Didn't
he spend a large sum of money in lodging and clothing
you ? "

" A large sum of money! " roared Macquart in exasperation;
" your grandmother is mad. Those thieves spread such reports
themselves, so as to close my mouth. I never had anything."

Fine again foolishly interfered, reminding him that he had
had two hundred francs, besides a suit of clothes and a year's
rent. Antoine shouted to her to hold her tongue, and
continued with increasing fury :

" Two hundred francs ! a fine thing ! I want my due, ten
thousand francs. Ah ! yes, talk of the hole they shoved me into
like a dog, and the old frock-coat which Pierre gave me because
he was ashamed to wear it any longer himself, it was so dirty
and ragged ! "

He was not speaking the truth ; but, seeing the rage he was
in, nobody ventured to protest further. Then, turning towards
Silvere :

"It's very stupid of you to defend them!" he added.
" They robbed your mother, who, good woman, would be alive
now if she had the means of taking care of herself."

"No, you're not just, uncle," the young man said, "my
mother did not die for want of attention, and I'm certain my
father would never have accepted a sou from his wife's family ! "

" Poob ! don't talk to me I your father would have taken

THE FORTUNE OF THE KOUGOXS. 149

the money just like an^'body else. We were disgracefully
plundered, and it's high time we had our rights."

And Macquart commenced, for the hundredth time, the story
of the fifty thousand francs. His nephew, who knew it by
heart, and all the different versions with which he embellished
it, listened to him rather impatiently.

" If 3'ou were a man," Antoine would say in conclusion,
** you would come one day with me, and we would kick up a
nice row at the Rougons. We would not leave without having
some money given us."

Silvere, however, grew serious, and frankly replied :

" If those wretches robbed us, so much the worse for them.
I don't want their mone3^ Don't you see, uncle, it's not for
us to smite our family. If they've done wrong, one of these
days they'll be severely punished for it."

" Ah ! what a big simpleton you are 1 " the uncle cried.
*' AVhen we have the upper hand, you'll see whether I sha'n't
Fettle my own little affairs myself. God cares a lot about us
indeed ! What a foul family ours is ! Were I starving to
death, not one of those scoundrels would throw me a dry
crust."

Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, he was
inexhaustible. He laid bare the still bleeding wounds of envy.
He got mad with rage when he came to think that he was the
only unlucky one in the family, that he was forced to eat pota-
toes while the others had meat to their heart's content. He
would pass all his relations under review, even his grand'
nephews, and find some grievance and some menace against
every one of them.

"Yes, yes," he repeated bitterly, "they'd leave me to die
like a dog."

Gervaise, without raising her head or stopping her needle,
would sometimes say, timidly :

" Still, father, cousin Pascal was very kind to us, last year,
when you were ill."

" He attended you without charging a sou," continued
Fine, coming to her daughter's aid, "and he often slipped a
five-franc piece into my hand to make you some broth."

" He! he'd have killed me if I hadn't had a strong constitu-
tion!" Macquart exclaimed. "Hold your tongues, fools!
You'd let yourselves be twisted about like children. They'd
all like to see me dead. When I'm ill again, I beg you not to

K

150 THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

go and fetch my nephew, for I didn't feel at all comfortable in
his hands. He's only a cheap doctor, and hasn't got a decent
patient in all his practice."

Macquart, now fairly launched, would go on for ever.

"It's like that little viper, Aristide," he would say, "a
false brother, a traitor. Are you taken in by his articles in the
* Independant,' Silvere ? You would be a famous fool if you
were. They're not even good French; I've alwa3^s maintained
that this contraband republican is in league with his worthy
father to humbug us. You'll see how he'll turn his coat. And
his brother, the illustrious Eugene, that big blockhead of whom
the Rougons make such a fuss ! why, they've got the impu-
dence to assert that he occupies a good position in Paris ! I
know something about his position ; he's employed at the Rue
de Jerusalem ; he's a police spy."

" Who told you so? You don't know anything about it,"
interrupted Silvere, whose upright spirit was at last feeling
wounded by his uncle's lying accusations.

" Ah ! I don't know anything about it? Do you think so ?
I tell you he's a police-spy. You'll be shorn like a lamb one of
these days, with your benevolence. You're not manly enough.
I don't want to say anything against your brother Fran9ois ;
but, if I were in your place, I shouldn't like the scurvy manner
in which he treats you. He earns a heap of money at Marseilles,
and yet he never sends you a miserable twenty-franc piece for
pocket-money. If ever you become poor, I shouldn't advise
you to look to him for anything."

"I've no need of anybody," the young man replied in a
proud and slightly injured tone of voice. "My own work
suffices for aunt Dide and myself. You're cruel, uncle."

" I only say what's true, that's all. I should like to open
your eyes. Our family are a disreputable lot; it's sad but
true. There's no one, even to that little Maxime, Aristide's
son, that little nine-year-old brat, who doesn't poke his tongue
out at me when he meets me. That child will one day strike
his mother, and a good job too. Say what you like, those
people don't deserve their luck ; but it's always so in
families, the good ones suffer while the bad ones make their
fortune."

All this dirty linen, which Macquart would wash with such
satisfaction before his nephew, profoundly disgusted the young
man. He would have liked to regain his dream. As soon as

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 151

he commenced to show unmistakable signs of impatience,
Antoine would employ strong expedients to exasperate him
against their relatives.

"Defend them! defend them !" he would say, appearing to
calm down. " I, for my part, have arranged to have nothing
more to do with them. I only mention the matter out of pity
for my poor mother, whom all that gang treat in a most
revolting manner."

" They are wretches ! " Silvere murmured.

" Oh ! you don't know, you don't understand. These
Rougons pour all sorts of insults and abuse on the good
woman. Aristide has forbidden his son even to recognise her.
Felicite talks of having her placed in a lunatic asylum."

The young, man, as white as a sheet, abruptly interrupted
his uncle :

"Enough!" he cried. "I don't want to know anything
more about it. There will have to be an end to all this."

" I will hold my tongue, since it annoys you," the old rascal
continued in a good-natured wa}^ " Still, there are some
things that you ought not to be ignorant of, unless you want
to play the part of a fool."

Macquart, while exerting himself to set Silvere against the
Rougons, felt an exquisite pleasure in drawing tears of anguish
to the young man's eyes. He detested him, perhaps, more
than the others, because he was an excellent workman and
never drank. He whetted his most refined cruelties in invent-
ing atrocious falsehoods which stung the poor lad to the heart ;
then he revelled in his paleness, his trembling hands, his heart-
rending looks with the delight of an evil spirit who plans his
stabs and strikes his victim in the right place. When he thought
he had wounded and exasperated Silvere sufficiently, he would
at last touch upon politics.

" I've been assured," he would say, lowering his voice,
" that the Rougons are preparing some treachery."

'• Treachery ? " Silvere asked, becoming attentive.

*' Yes, one of these nights they are going to seize all the
good citizens of the town and throw them into prison."

The young man at first was disposed to doubt it, but his
uncle gave precise details ; he spoke of lists being drawn up,
he mentioned the persons whose names were on these lists, he
indicated in what manner, at what hour, and under what cir-
cumstances the plot would be carried into effect. Gradually

152 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

Silvere allowed himself to be taken in by this old woman's tale,
and was soon raving against the enemies of the Republic.

" We shall have to reduce them to impotence, if they per-
sist in betraying the country," he cried. " And what do they
intend to do with the citizens whom they arrest ? "

" What do they intend to do with them? Why, they will
shoot them in the lowest dungeons of the prison, of course,"
replied Macquart, with a little hoarse laugh.

And as the young man, stupefied with horror, looked at him
without knowing what to say :

"This is not the first lot that will have been assassinated
there," he continued. " You need only go and prowl about
the Palais de Justice of an evening, to hear the shots and groans."

" Oh, the wretches ! " Silvere murmured.

Thereupon uncle and nephew launched out into politics.
Fine and Gervaise, observing them debating loudly, quietly
went to bed without attracting their attention. The two men
remained thus till midnight, commenting on the news from
Paris and discussing the approaching and inevitable struggle.
Macquart bitterly denounced the men of his own party,
Silvere dreamed aloud, and for himself only, his dream of ideal
liberty. Strange conversations, during which the uncle filled
a countless number of little glasses for himself, and from which
the nephew emerged quite intoxicated with enthusiasm.
Antoine, however, never succeeded in obtaining from the young
republican a perfidious calculation, or a plan of warfare against
the Rougons ; in vain he tried to goad him on, he never heard
from his mouth anything but appeals to eternal justice, which
sooner or later would punish the evil doers.

The ingenuous 3'outh spoke indeed with warmth of taking
up arms and massacring the enemies of the Republic ; but as
soon as these enemies quitted his dream and were personified
in his uncle Pierre or any other person of his acquaintance, he
relied upon heaven to spare him the horror of shedding blood.
It is very probable that he would have ceased his visits to Mac-
quart, whose jealous fury made him uncomfortable, if he had
not found a pleasure in being able to speak freely there of his
dear Republic. His uncle, nevertheless, exercised a decided
influence over his destiny, he irritated his nerves with his con-
tinual diatribes ; he succeeded in making him eagerly long for
the armed struggle, for the violent conquest of universal
happiness.

THE FOETUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 153

"When Silvers reached his sixteenth year, Macquart had
him admitted into the secret society of the Montagnards, a
powerful association which wielded its influence over the entire
South. From that moment, the young republican looked with
longing" eyes at the smuggler's carbine, which Adelaide had
hung up over the chimney-piece. One night, w^hile his grand-
mother was asleep, he cleaned and restored it. Then he
replaced it on its nail and w^aited. He lulled himself with his
brilliant reveries, building up gigantic epopees ; seeing, in his
mind's eye, Homeric struggles and knightly tournaments
from which the defenders of liberty emerged victorious and
acclaimed by the whole world.

Macquart, in spite of the fruitlessness of his efforts, was
not discouraged. He said to himself that he would be able to
strangle the Rougons alone if he ever got them into a corner.
His envious rage and slothful greed became augmented by
successive accidents which compelled him to resume work.
In the early part of 1850 Fine died, almost suddenly, from in-
flammation of the lungs, which she caught by going one
evening to wash the linen of the family in the Yiorne, and
carrying it home wet on her back. She returned soaked with
w^ater and perspiration, crushed by the load wiiich w^as
enormously heav}^, and never recovered.

This death struck Macquart with consternation. His most
reliable source of income w-as gone. When, after a few da^^s,
he sold the cauldron in which his wife used to boil the chest-
nuts, and the wooden horse which she used in new-bottoming
her old chairs, he foully accused God of having taken away
the deceased, that strong, strapping woman of whom he had
been ashamed, but whose real worth he now appreciated. He
fell upon his children's earnings with greater avidity. But, a
month later, Gervaise, tired of his continual exactions, ran .
away with her two children and Lantier, whose mother was V\'
dead. The lovers took refuge in Paris. Antoine, astounded,
foully abused his daughter, expressing the hope that she might
die in the hospital like most of her kind. This flood of abuse
did not improve the situation, which was decidedl}^ becoming
bad. Jean soon followed his sister's example. He waited till
one pay-day, and then contrived to receive the money himself.
As he was leaving he told one of his friends, who repeated it
to Antoine, that he would not keep his lazy father any longer,
and that if the latter should take it into his head to have him

15 J: THE FOrvTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

brought back by the gendarmes he was clGtermuied not to
touch a saw or a plane.
y/ On the morrow, when Antoine, having sought for him in
vain, found himself alone and penniless in the house where for
twenty years he had been comfortably kept, he fell into a
violent rage, kicking the furniture about, and yelling the vilest
imprecations. Then he sank down exhausted, and began to
drag his feet and moan like a convalescent. The fear of having
to earn his bread made him positively ill. When Silvere came
to see him, he complained, with tears in his eyes, of his children's
ingratitude. Had he not alwa^^s been a good father to them ?
Jean and Gervaise were monsters, who made an evil return for
all he had done for them. Now they abandoned him because
he was old, and they could not get anything more out of him.

" But, uncle," said Silvere, " you are not yet too old to
work ! "

Macquart, coughing and stooping, shook his head mourn-
fully, as if to say that he could not bear the least fatigue for
any length of time. Just as his nephew was about to withdraw,
he borrowed ten francs of him. He lived for a month by taking
his children's old clothes, one by one, to a second-hand dealer,
selling likewise, little by little, all the small articles in the
bouse. Yery soon nothing remained but a table, a chair, his
bed and the clothes on his back. He ended by exchanging
the walnut-wood bedstead for a plain strap one. AVhen he had
exhausted all his resources, he cried with rage ; and, with the
fierce lividness of a man resigned to suicide, he went to look
for the bundle of osier, forgotten in some corner for a quarter
of a century. As he took it up, he seemed to be lifting a
mountain. He set to w^ork again to plait baskets and hampers,
denouncing the human race for their neglect.

It was at this time especially that he talked of dividing' the
riches of the wealthy. He appeared terrible. His speeches
set the tavern ablaze where his furious looks secured him un-
limited credit. Moreover, he never worked, excepting when
he had been unable to get a five-franc piece out of Silvere or a
comrade. He was no longer " Monsieur " Macquart, that
workman, clean-shaven and in Sunday clothes every day, who
played the gentleman : he became again that slovenly old
devil who had once speculated on his rags. Now that he went
almost every market-day to sell his baskets, Felicite did not
dare to go to the market. He once had a violent quarrel with

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 155

her. nis hatred against the Rougons grew with his wretched-
ness. He swore, uttering horrible threats, that he would
execute justice himself, since the rich were in league to compel
him to toil.

In this state of mind, he welcomed the Coup d'l^tat with
the ardent, obstreperous delight of a dog scenting the quarry.
The few honest Liberals in the town not having succeeded in
arriving at an understanding amongst themselves, and holding
themselves apart, he became naturally one of the most prominent
agents of the insurrection. The workmen, notwithstanding the
unfavourable opinion which they at last came to entertain of
this lazy fellow, would, when the time arrived, have to accept
him as the rallying flag. The first few days, however, the
town remained quiet, and Macquart thought his plans were
frustrated. It was not until the news arrived of the insurrec-
tion in the country that he recovered hope. He would not
have left Plassans for all the world; he therefore invented
some pretext for not following the workmen who, on the
Sunday morning, went to join the insurrectionary band of La
Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Yaulx.

On the evening of the same day he was in some obscure
tavern of the old quarter with a few friends, when a comrade
arrived and informed him that the insurgents were only a few
miles from Plassans. This news had just been brought b}' an
express, who had succeeded in making his way into the town,
and who had been charged to get the gates open for the
column. There was an outburst of triumph. Macquart,"
especially, appeared to be delirious with enthusiasm. The un-
foreseen arrival of the insurgents seemed to him a delicate
thoughtfulness of Providence on his account. Ilis hands
trembled at the idea that he would soon hold the Eougons by
the throat.

In the meantime, Antoine and his friends hastily quitted the
tavern. All the republicans who had not yet left the town
were soon assembled on the Cours Sauvaire. It was this band
that Rougon had observed as he was running to conceal him-
self in his mother's house. When the band had reached the
top of the Rue de la Banne, Macquart, who had stationed him-
self at the rear, made four of his companions remain behind,
great big fellows not over-burdened with brains whom he
swayed by his tavern bluster. He easily persuaded them that
the enemies of the Republic must be arrested immediately if

156 THE FOETUNE OF THE BOUGONS.

they wished to avoid the greatest calamities. The truth was,
he was afraid Pierre mig-ht escape him in the midst of the con-
fusion which the entry of the insurg-ents would produce. The
four big fellows followed him with exemplary docility, and
went and knocked violently at the Rougons' abode. In this
critical situation Felicite displayed admirable courage. She
went down and opened the street door.

*' We want to go upstairs into your rooms," Macquart said
to her brutally.

" Very well, gentlemen, walk up," she replied with ironical
politeness, pretending not to recognise her brother-in-law.

When they were upstairs, Macquart ordered her to go and
fetch her husband.

" My husband is not here," she said more and more calmly;
*' he is travelling on business. He took the diligence for
Marseilles at six o'clock this evening-."

Antoine at this declaration, uttered in a clear voice, made a
gesture of rage. He rushed into the drawing-room, went into
the bedroom, turned the bed up, looked behind the curtains and
under the furniture. The four big fellows assisted him. They
searched about the place for a" quarter of an hour ; Felicite
quietly seated herself on the drawing-room sofa, and began to
fasten the strings of her petticoats, like a person who has just
been surprised in her sleep and has not had time to dress
properly.

"It's true then, he's run away, the coward!" Macquart
muttered, returning to the drawing-room.

He continued, however, to look about him with a suspicious
air. He felt a presentiment that Pierre could not have given
up the game at the decisive moment. He approached Felicite,
who was yawning :

" Show us the place where 3'our husband is hidden," he
said to her, " and I promise that no harm shall be done to him."

" I have told you the truth," she replied impatiently. " I
can't deliver my husband to you as he's not here. You have
searched everywhere, haven't you ? Then leave me alone now."

Macquart, exasperated by her composure, was just going
to strike her, when a dull noise rose from the street. It was
the column of insurgents entering the Rue de la Banne.

He had to leave the yellow drawing-room after shaking his
fist at his sister-in-law, calling her an old beggar, and threat-
ening to return soon. At the foot of the staircase, he took

,'^s^^, ,>.v^i;r|r,?.^,.

MACQUART, IN COMPANY WITH OTHER INSURGENTS, CALLING TO
ARREST ROUGON. p. 156.

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGOKS. 157

aside one of the men who were accompanying him, a navvy
named Cassoute, the most wooden-headed of the four, and
ordered him to sit on the first step, and not to stir from there
till further orders.

" You must come and inform me," he said to him, " if you
see the scoundrel from upstairs return."

The man sat down heavily. When Macquart was on the
pavement, he raised his eyes and observed Felicite leaning- out
of the window of thej^ellow drawing-room, watching curiously
the march past of the insurgents, as if it was nothing but a
regiment passing through the town to the strains of its band.
This last sign of perfect composure irritated him to such a
degree that he was almost tempted to go up and throw the old
woman into the street. He followed the column, muttering in
a hoarse voice :

" Yes, 3'es, look at us passing. "We'll see whether you will
sit at 3^our balcony to-morrow."

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when the insurgents
entered the town by the Porte de Rome. It was the workmen
remaining at Plassans who opened the gates for them, in spite
of the wailings of the keeper, from whom they could only wrest
the keys by force. This man, very jealous of his office, stood
dumbfoundered in the presence of this surging crowd ; he, who
never allowed more than one person to pass in at a time, and
then only after a prolonged examination of his face, murmured
that he was dishonoured. The men of Plassans were still
marching at the head of the column guiding the others; Miette
in the front rank, with Silvere on her left, held up the banner
with more swagger now that she could feel, behind the
closed blinds, the scared looks of the well-to-do citizens startled '
out of their sleep. The insurgents passed along the Rue de
Rome and the Rue de la Banne slowly and warily ; at every
crossway they were afraid of being received with bullets,
although they well knew the quiet disposition of the inhabi-
tants. The town seemed dead, however ; there was scarcely
a stifled exclamation to be heard at the windows. Five or six
shutters only were opened ; some old householder appeared in
his shirt, candle in hand, leaning out to obtain a better view ;
then, as soon as the old man distinguished the tall red girl who
appeared to be drawing this crowd of black demons behind
her, he hastily closed his window again, terrified by the diabolical
apparition.

158 THE FOETUNE OF THE BOtJGONS.

The silence of the slumbering town reassured the insurgents,
who ventured to make their way through the lanes of the old
quarter, reaching thereby the market-place and the Place de
riI6tel-de-Ville, which communicate with each other through
a short broad street These two open spaces, planted with
meagre trees, were brilliantly illuminated by the moon.
The H6tel-de-Yille, recently restored, depicted against the
clear sky a large white spot, on which the balcony of the first
floor displayed in fine black lines its arabesques of wrought
iron. Several persons could be plainly distinguished standing
on this balcony, the mayor, Commander Sicardot, three or four
municipal councillors, and other functionaries. The doors
below were closed. The three thousand republicans, who
covered the two open spaces, halted with uplifted heads, ready
to force the doors with a single shove.

The arrival of the insurrectionary column at such an hour
took the authorities by surprise. Before going to the mayor's,
Commander Sicardot had taken the ojDportunity to don his
uniform. He then had to run and rouse the mayor. When
the keeper of the Porte de Eome, left free by the insurgents,
came to announce that the villains were already in the town,
the commander had only succeeded with difficulty in rall^ang
about twenty of the national guards. The gendarmes, whose
barracks, however, were close by, could not even be warned.
It was necessary to shut the doors hastily, in order to deliber-
ate. Five minutes later a dull and continuous rumbling an-
nounced the approach of the column.

Monsieur Gar9onnet, out of hatred to the Republic, would
have ardently wished to offer resistance. But he was a prudent
man, and comprehended the fruitlessness of the struggle as he
saw around him only a few pale men scarcely awake. The
deliberation did not last long. Sicardot alone was obstinate ;
he wanted to fight, asserting that twenty men would be suffi-
cient to bring those three thousand villains to reason. Monsieur
Gar9onnet shrugged his shoulders, and declared that the only
step to take was to make an honourable capitulation. As the
uproar of the mob increased, he went out on the balcony, fol-
lowed by all the persons present. Silence was gradually
obtained. Below, among the black, quivering mass of insur-
gents, the guns and scythes glittered in the moonlight.

" Who are you, and what do you want ? " cried the mayor
in a loud voice.

THE FOUTUNE OF THE EOtJGONS. 159

Thereupon a man in a greatcoat, a landowner of La Palud,
advanced.

*' Open the door," he said, without repl^^ing to Monsieur
Gar^onnet's question. " Avoid a fratricidal conflict."

" I call upon 3^ou to withdraw," the mayor continued. " I
protest in the name of the law."

These words provoked deafening* shouts from the crowd.
When the tumult was somewhat calmed, vehement interpella-
tions rose to the balcony. Voices shouted :

" We have come in the name of the law."

" Your duty as a functionary is to secure respect for the
fundamental law of the land, the constitution, which has just
been outrageously violated."

*' Long live the constitution ! Long live the Republic ! "

And as Monsieur Gar^onnet endeavoured to make himself
heard, and continued to invoke his official dignity, the land-
owner of La Palud, who was standing under the balcony,
interrupted him with great vehemence :

" You are no longer anything but the functionary of a fallen
functionary ; we have come to deprive you of your office."

Hitherto, Commander Sicardot had been biting his moustache
in a formidable manner, swallowing these gross insults. The
sight of the cudgels and scythes exasperated him ; he was
making unheard-of efforts to restrain himself from treating
these miserable soldiers, who had not even a gun apiece, as
they deserved. But when he heard a gentleman in a plain
greatcoat speak of deposing a mayor girded with his scarf, he
could no longer contain himself and shouted :

" Pack of villains ! If I only had four men and a corporal,
I'd come down and pull your ears for you, and make you
behave yourselves I "

It did not require so much to raise a very serious disturb-
ance. A long shout rose from the mob as it made a rush for
the doors. Monsieur Gar^onnet, in consternation, hastily
quitted the balcony, entreating Sicardot to be reasonable un-
less he wished to have them massacred. In two minutes the
doors gave wa}^, the people invaded the building and disarmed
the national guards. The mayor and the other functionaries
present M'ere arrested. Sicardot, who declined to surrender his
sword, had to be protected by the chief of the contingent from
Les Tulettes, a man of great self-possession, against the fury
of some of the insurgents. When the Ilutel-de-Ville w^as in

160 THE FORTUNE OF THE HOUGONS.

the hands of the republicans, they led the prisoners away to a
small cafe in the market-place, where they were closely
watched.

The insurrectionary army would have avoided marching-
through Plassans if their leaders had not decided that a little
food and a few hours' rest were absolutely necessary for the
men. Instead of pushing forward direct to the chief town,
the column, owing- to the inexcusable weakness and the in-
experience of the improvised general who commanded it, was
wheeling round to the left, making- a sort of wide detour which
was destined to lead it to destruction. It was bound for the
heights of Sainte-Roure, still about ten leagues distant, and
in view of this long march it had been decided to pass
through the town, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.
It was then about half-past eleven.

When Monsieur Gar<^onnet knew that the band was in
quest of provisions, he offered his services to procure them.
This functionary displayed, under these difficult circumstances,
a very intelligent appreciation of the situation. These three
thousand starving men would have to be satisfied ; it would
never do for Plassans, on waking up, to still find them
squatting on the pavements ; if they withdrew before daybreak
they would simply have passed through the slumbering town
like an evil dream, like one of those nightmares which depart
with the arrival of dawn. Although he remained a prisoner,
Monsieur Gar(^onnet, followed by two guards, went about
knocking at the bakers' doors, and caused all the provisions he
could find to be distributed among the insurgents.

Towards one o'clock the three thousand men began to eat,
squatting on the ground, with their weapons between their
legs. The market-place and the neighbourhood of the Hotel-
de-Ville were transformed into vast refectories. In spite of
the bitter cold, humorous and cheerful sallies were exchanged
in the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of which were
vividly delineated by the brilliancy of the moon. The poor
famished fellows eagerly devoured their portions as they
breathed on their fingers ; and, from the depths of the adjoining
streets, where one could distinguish confused black forms
seated on the white thresholds of the houses, there came sudden
bursts of laughter which emerged from the darkness and were
lost amidst the turmoil. At the windows some emboldened,
inquisitive old women, with silk handkerchiefs tied round their

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 161

heads, watched these terrible insurg-ents eating-, these blood-
drinkers g'oing- in turn to take a draught, in the hollow of
their hands, from the pump in the market.

Whilst the H6tel-de-Ville was being invaded, the quarters
of the gendarmes, situated a few steps away, in the Rue Can-
quoin which leads to the market, also fell into the hands of the
mob. The gendarmes were surprised in their beds and dis-
armed in a few minutes. The impetus of the crowd had carried
Miette and Silvere along in that direction. The girl, who still
clasped the staff of the banner to her breast, was pushed up
against the wall of the barrack, while the young man, carried
away by this human wave, penetrated into the interior, assist-
ing his comrades to wrest from the gendarmes the carbines
which they had hastily caught up. Silvere, becoming ferocious,
intoxicated by the onslaught of the band, attacked a big devil
of a gendarme named Kengade, with whom he struggled for a
few moments. By a sudden movement, he succeeded in wrest-
ing his carbine from him. The barrel struck Kengade a
violent blow in the face, which put his right eye out. Blood
flowed, and, splashing Silvere's hands, quickly brought him to
his senses. He looked at his hands and dropped the carbine ;
then he ran out, in a state of frenzy, shaking his fingers.

" You are wounded ! " cried Miette.

'' No, no," he replied in a stifled voice, *' I've just killed a
gendarme."

" Is he really dead ? " asked Miette.

"I don't know," Silvere replied, "his face was all covered
with blood. Come quickly."

He hurried the young girl away. Arrived in the market,
he made her sit down on a stone bench and told her to wait
there for him. lie still looked at his hands, muttering some-
thing at the same time. Miette at last made out from his
disjointed words that he wanted to go and kiss his grand-
mother before leaving.

" Well, go," she said ; " don't trouble yourself about me.
Wash your hands."

lie went away quickly, keeping his fingers apart, without
thinking of dipping them into the water which he passed.
Since he had felt the warmth of Rengade's blood on his skin,
he was impelled by one sole idea, to run to aunt Dide and dip
his hands in the well-trough at the back of the little yard-
There only, he thought, he would be able to wash off the blood.

162 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

All his calm, gentle childhood returned, he felt an irresistible
longing" to take refuge in his grandmother's skirts, if only for a
minute. He arrived out of breath. Aunt Dide had not gone
to bed, a circumstance which at any other time would have
surprised Silvere. But on entering he did not even see his
uncle Eougon, sitting in a corner on the old chest. lie did
not wait for the poor old woman's questions.

"Granny," he said quickly, "you must forgive me; I'm
going to leave with the others. You see I've got blood on
me. I believe I've killed a gendarme."

"You've killed a gendarme?" aunt Dide repeated in a
strange voice.

Her eyes gleamed sharply as she fixed them on the red
stains. Suddenly she turned towards the chimney-piece.
" You've taken the gun," she said ; " where's the gun ? "
Silvere, who had left the weapon with Miette, swore to her
that it was quite safe. For the first time, Adelaide made an
allusion to the smuggler Macquart in her grandson's presence.
" You'll bring the gun back? You promise me ! " she said
with singular energy. " It's all I have left of him. You've
killed a gendarme ; ah, it was the gendarmes who killed him ! "
She continued gazing fixedly at Silvere with an air of cruel
satisfaction, apparently without thinking of detaining him.
She never asked him for any explanation, nor wept like those
good grandmothers who alwaj^s imagine, at the least scratch,
that their grandchildren are dying. All her nature strained
towards one unique thought, to which she at last gave expres-
sion with an ardent curiosit}' :

" Did you kill the gendarme with the gun ? "
No doubt Silvere either did not quite catch what she said,
or else misunderstood her.

" Yes ! " he replied. " I'm going to wash my hands."
It was only on returning from the well that he perceived
his uncle. Pierre had turned pale as he heard the young man's
words. Felicite was indeed right ; his family took a pleasure
in compromising him. Now one of his nephews had killed a
gendarme ! He would never get the post of receiver of taxes,
if he did not prevent this mad fool from rejoining the insurgents.
He planted himself in front of the door, determined not to let
him go out.

" Listen," he said to Silvere, who was very surprised to find
him there, "I am the head of the family, and I forbid you

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 1G3

leaving this house. You are risking* your own honour and ours
too. To-morrow I will try and assist you to reach the
frontier."

Silvere shrugged his shoulders.

" Let me pass," he replied calmly. " I'm not a police-spy ;
I shall not reveal your hiding-place, never fear."

And as Rougon continued to speak of the family dignity and
the authority with which his seniority invested him :

*'Do I belong to your family?" the young man continued.
''You have always disowned me. To-day, fear has driven
you here, because you feel that the day of judgment has
arrived. Come, make way! I don't hide myself; 1 have a
duty to perform."

llougon did not budge. Thereupon aunt Dide, who listened
with a sort of delight to Silvere's vehement language, laid her
withered hand on her son's arm.

" Get out of the wa}^, Pierre," she said ; " the lad must go."

The young man gave his uncle a slight shove, and dashed
outside. Rougon, as he carefully shut the door again, said to
his mother in an angry, threatening tone :

" If any mischief happens to him it will be your fault.
You're an old madwoman ; you don't know what you've just
done."

Adelaide, however, did not appear to hear him. She went
and threw a log on to the fire which was going out, and mur-
mured with a vague smile :

" I'm used to it. He would remain away for months
together, and then come back to me much better."

No doubt she was speaking of Macquart.

In the meantime, Silvere hastily regained the market-place.
As he approached the spot where he had left Miette, he lieard
a loud uproar of voices and saw a crowd which made him
quicken his steps. A cruel scene had just occurred. Some
onlookers were walking among the insurgents, while the latter
were quietly occupied with their meal. Amongst these on-
lookers was Justin, Rebufat's son, a youth about twenty years
old, a sickly, squint-eyed creature, who cherished an implacable
hatred against his cousin Miette. At home he grudged her the
bread she ate, and treated her like a beggar picked up in the
gutter out of charity. It is probable that the young girl had
rejected his advances. Lank and pale, with ill-proportioned
limbs and face all awry, he revenged himself upon her for his own

164 THE FOETUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

ug-liness, and the contempt which the handsome, vig-orous girl
must have evinced for him. He ardently longed to induce his
father to send her about her business. He therefore kept an
unremitting- watch upon her. For some time past, he had
become aware of her meetings with Silvere ; he only awaited a
decisive opportunity to betray everything to Rebufat.

On the evening in question, having seen her leave home
at about eight o'clock, Justin's hatred overpowered him, and
he could not keep quiet any longer. Rebufat, on hearing his
stor}^, fell into a terrible rage, and said he would kick the
gadabout out of his house if she had the audacity to return.
Justin went to bed, relishing beforehand the fine scene which
would take place on the following day. Then he felt a burn-
ing desire to have a foretaste of his revenge immediately. He
dressed himself again and went out Perhaps he might meet
Miette. He made up his mind to be very insolent. This is how
he came to be present at the arrival of the insurgents, and fol-
lowed them to the H6tel-de-Ville with a vague presentiment
that he would find the lovers there. He at last caught sight
of his cousin on the seat where she was waiting for Silvere.
Seeing her wrapped in her large pelisse, resting against one
of the pillars of the market with the red flag at her side, he
commenced to jeer at her with coarse jests. The young girl,
amazed at seeing him, was unable to speak. She wept beneath
his abuse, and whilst she was overcome by sobbing, bowing
her head and hiding her face, Justin called her a convict's
daughter and shouted that old Rebufat would give her a good
thrashing if she dared to return to the Jas-Meiffren.

He kept her thus for a quarter of an hour, in a state of
tremor and fright. Some people had gathered round, grinning
stupidly at this painful scene. At last some of the insurgents
interfered, and threatened to inflict exemplary chastisement on
the young man if he did not leave Miette alone. Justin de-
clared that he was not afraid of them, although he retreated a
few steps. It was just at this moment that Silvere appeared.
Young Rebufat, catching sight of him, made a sudden leap, as
if to take flight ; he was afraid of Silvere, knowing that he was
much stronger than himself. He could not, however, resist the
extreme pleasure of inflicting a parting insult on the girl
before her lover.

" Ah ! I knew very well," he cried, " that the wheelwright
could not be far off ! You left us to run after that crack-

THE FOBTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 165

brained fellow, eli ? The wretched girl ! she's not sixteen yet I
When's the baptism to be ? "

He retreated a few steps further on beholding Silvere clench
his fists.

'' And mind," he continued, with a vile sneer, " you don't
come to our house for your confinement. You wouldn't re-
quire a midwife. My father would deliver you with kicks.
Do you hear ? "

He ran away howling, his face black and blue. Silvere at
a bound had rushed upon him, and landed him a blow full in the
face. He did not pursue him. When he returned to Miette
he found her standing up, feverishly drying her tears with the
palm of her hand. As he was gazing tenderly at her to con-
sole her, she made a sudden energetic movement.

"No," she said, "I'm not going to cry anymore, you'll
see. I'm very glad of it. I don't feel any regret now for
leaving home. I am free."

She took up the banner and led Silvere back into the midst
of the insurgents. It was then nearly two o'clock in the
morning. The cold was becoming so intense that the repub-
licans had risen and were finishing their bread as they tried
to warm themselves by pacing to and fro. At last the chiefs
gave the order to depart. The column formed again. The
prisoners were placed in the middle ; besides Monsieur Gar-
bonnet and Commander Sicardot, the insurgents had arrested
and led away Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, and
several other functionaries.

At this moment, Aristide was observed walking about among
the groups. In the face of this formidable revolt, the dear
fellow had thought it imprudent not to remain on friendly
terms with the republicans ; but as, on the other hand, he did
not want to compromise himself with them too much, he came
to bid them farewell with his arm in a sling, complaining
bitterly of that accursed wound which prevented him carrying
a weapon. He came across his brother Pascal in the crowd,
provided with a case of surgical instruments and a medicine
chest. The doctor informed him, in his quiet voice, that he
was going to follow the insurgents. Aristide inwardly con-
sidered him a great fool. At last he slunk away, fearing lest
they should entrust the care of the town to him, a post which
he deemed exceptionally perilous.

The insurgents could never have thought of keeping Plassans

L

166 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

in their power. The town was animated by a much too re-
actionary spirit for them to endeavour even to estabhsh a de-
mocratic commission there, as they had already done in other
places. They would simply have gone awa}^, if Macquart,
prompted and emboldened by his own animosities, had not
offered to keep Plassans in awe, on condition that they left
behind twenty determined men under his orders. The twenty
men were given to him, and he marched triumphantly at their
head to occupy the Hotel-de-Yille. During this time the column
was wending its way along the Cours Sauvaire, and making
its exit by the Grande Porte, leaving the streets, which it had
traversed like a tempest, silent and deserted in its rear. The
high road, whitened by the moonshine, stretched far into the
distance. Miette had refused Silvere's arm; she marched
along bravely, steady and upright, holding the red banner
aloft with both hands, without complaining of the numbness
which was turning her fingers blue.

167

CHAPTER Y.

The hig-h roads, whitened by the moonshine, stretched far into
the distance.

The insurrectionary baud continued its heroic march through
the cold, clear country. It was a mighty v^ave of enthusiasm.
This thrill of patriotism, which carried Miette and Silvere
away, big- children that they were, all greedy of love and
liberty, g-leamed like a web of holiest purity athwart the sordid
woof of the shameful saturnalia of the Macquarts and Rougons.
The trumpet-voice of the people blared and drowned the
prattle of the yellow drawing-room and the diatribes of uncle
Antoine. All their vulgar, mean farce was being lost and
forgotten in the great drama of history.

On quitting Plassans, the insurgents had taken the road to
Orcheres. They expected to reach that town at about six
o'clock in the raorning. The road rises again along the course
of the Viorne, following half-way up the hill the windings of
the hillocks, at the foot of which the torrent flows. On the
left, the plain spreads out like an immense green carpet,
spotted here and there with the grey patches of the villages.
On the right, the chain of the Garrigues hills rears up its
desolate peaks, its stony plains, its rusty boulders that look as
though they had been reddened by the sun. The high road,
forming a path along the river, passes in the midst of enormous
rocks, between which glimpses of the valley are caught at every
step. Nothing could be wilder or more strikingly grand than this
road cut through the very bosom of the hills. At night time,
especially, these spots inspire one with a feeling of deep awe.
The insurgents advanced, under the pale light, along what
seemed the chief street of a ruined town, bordered on either
side with the debris of temples. Beneath the moon's pale
glimmer every rock became a broken column, or a crumbling
capital, or a sti-etch of wall opening out into mysterious arches.
Up above, the mass of the Garrigues lay slumbering, blanched
with a light milky tinge, like an immense Cyclopean city whose

1G8 THE FORTUNE OP THE ROUGONS.

towers, obelisks, and houses with hig-h terraces, blotted out
half the heavens ; and the depths below, on the side of the
plain, w^ere flooded with a spreading ocean of diffused light,
hazy and limitless, over which floated clouds of luminous mist.
The insurrectionary band might well have thought they were
following a gigantic causeway, a winding-road constructed on
the shore of a phosphorescent sea, and circling some hitherto
unknown Babel.

On the night in question, the Yiorne hurried along with a
hoarse roar at the foot of the rocks borderino: the route. Throug-h
the continuous rumbling of the torrent, the insurgents caught
sounds of the sharp, wailing notes of the tocsin. The villages
which were scattered about the plain, on the other side of the
river, were rising- in revolt, sounding alarms and lighting
signal-fires. The marching column, which the persistent
tolling of a mournful knell seemed ever to pursue during the
"udiole night, thus beheld the insurrection spreading along the
valley, until daybreak, like a train of powder. The fires spotted
the darkness with bloody specks ; distant songs were wafted
along on the gentle breeze. The whole vague distance,
bathed in the whitish vapours of the moon, was in a state of
confused agitation, breaking out into sharp spasms of anger.
For many leagues similar scenes presented themselves to
the observation of the column.

These men, marching under the blind impetus of the fever
with which the events at Paris had inspired the hearts of the
republicans, were elated at the spectacle of this long stretch of
country quivering with revolt. Intoxicated with enthusiasm
for the general insurrection of which the}^ dreamed, they
fancied that France was following- them ; they pictured to
themselves endless files of men on the other side of the Yiorne,
in the vast ocean of diffused light, rushing like them to the
defence of the Eepublic. Their rude imagination, with all the
characteristic simplicity and delusion of a mob, dreamed of an
easy and certain victory. They would have seized and shot as a
traitor any one who had asserted, at that time, that they were
the only ones who had the courage of their duty, while the
rest of the countr^^, overwhelmed with fright, was pusillani-
mously allowing itself to be trodden under foot.

They derived a continual inspiration of courage from tlio
welcome accorded to them b^^the towns that lay along their route
on the slopes of the Garrigues. The inhabitants rose in a

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOtJGOKS. 109

body at the first approach of the little army ; the women ran to
meet them, wishing- them a speedy victory, while the men, half
dressed and seizing the first weapons that fell into their hands,
rushed to join the ranks. There was a fresh ovation at every
village, with shouts of welcome and farewell many times
reiterated.

Towards daybreak the moon disappeared behind the
Garrigues, the insurgents continuing their rapid march through
the thick darkness of a winter night. They were unable to
distinguish the valley or the hills ; they heard only the hoarse
plaints of the bells, tolling through the deep obscurity like the
beat of invisible drums, hidden they knew not where, and
goading them on relentlessly with their despairing appeals.

Miette and Silvere were carried away by the enthusiasm of
the detachment. Towards daj'break, the young girl was
overcome by fatigue ; she could only walk with short quick
steps, and was unable to keep pace with the large strides of
the men who surrounded her. But she strove courageousl}" to
suppress all complaints; it would have cost her too much to
confess that she was not as strong as a boy. As they were
traversing the first few leagues, Silvere gave her his arm ; then,
seeing that the standard was slipping gradually from her
benumbed hands, he wanted to take it in order to relieve her ;
but she grew angry and would only allow him to hold the flag
with one hand while she continued to carry it on her shoulder.
She maintained this heroic attitude with childish obstinac}',
smiling at the young man every time he cast a glance of loving'
anxiety upon her. But when the moon hid itself, she gave way
under the shelter of darkness. Silvere felt her pressing more
heavily on his arm. He had to carry the flag, and hold her
round the waist to prevent her from stumbling.

" Are you very tired, poor Miette ? " he asked his companion.

*' Yes, a little tired," she replied in a weary tone.

" Would you like to rest a bit ? "

She made no reply ; he saw, however, that she was stagger-
ing. He thereupon handed the flag to one of the insurgents
and quitted the ranks, almost carrying the girl off in his arms.
She struggled a little, she was distressed at appearing such a
mere child. But he calmed her, telling her that he knew a
cross-road which shortened the distance by half. They would
be able to take a good hour's rest and arrive at Orcheres at the
same time as the detachment.

170 THE FORTUNE OE THE KOtJGONS.

It was then about six o'clock. There was a slight mist
rising from the Viorne, and the darkness seemed to be growing
denser. The 3'oung people groped their way along over the
slopes of the Garrigues, until they came to a rock on which
they sat down. Around them lay an abj'ss of darkness. They
were stranded, as it were, on the point of some space-surrounded
peak. Through the dark void, when the dull rumbling of the
little army had died away, they heard nothing but two bells,
the one clear-toned, ringing, no doubt, at their feet in some
village built on the side of the road, the other far-off and faint,
responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the feverish plaints
of the first. One might have thought that these bells were
relating to each other, through the empty waste, the dismal
story of a perishing world.

Miette and Silvere, warmed by their quick run, did not feel
the cold at first. They remained silent, listening, in great
dejection, to the sounds of the tocsin with which the darkness
throbbed. They could not even see one another. Miette
felt afraid, and, groping for Silvere's hand, held it in her
own. After the outburst of enthusiasm which for several
hours had carried them away beside themselves and their
minds, this sudden halt, this solitude, in which they found
themselves side by side again, left them stunned and bewildered
as though they had suddenly awoke from a wild dream. They
felt as though a wave had cast them on the highway, and then
had ebbed back and left them stranded. An irresistible reaction
plunged them into a listless stupor ; they forgot their
enthusiasm ; they thought no more of that band of men which
they had to rejoin ; they surrendered themselves to the melan-
choly sweetness of finding themselves alone, hand in hand, in
the midst of all this wild darlniess.

" You are not angry with me ? " the j^oung girl at length
asked. " I could easily walk the whole night long with you ;
but they were running too quickly, I could hardly breathe."

" Why should I be angry with you ? ^' the young man said.

" I don't know. I was afraid you might not love me any
longer. I wish so much I could have taken long strides like
you, and walked along without stopping. You will think I
am a child."

Silvere smiled, and Miette, though the darkness prevented
her seeing him, guessed he was doing so, and she continued in
tones of steady determination :

l^HE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 171

" You must not always treat me like a sister. I want to be
your wife."

And she clasped Silvere to her bosom.

She held him locked in her arms, murmuring :

''We shall grow so cold; let us warm ourselves like
this."

Then they lapsed into silence. Until that troubled evening
they had loved one another with the affection of brother and /
sister. In their ignorance they still mistook for a tender
friendship the desire they felt to remain clasped in each other's
embrace long'er than brother and sister are wont to do. But
beneath this guileless love surged more wildly every day the
tempest of Miette's and Silvere's ardent blood. Age and
experience would generate a violent passion of southern
warmth from this idyll. Every girl who hangs on a youth's
neck is already a woman, a woman unconsciously, whom a
caress can awaken into conscious womanhood. When lovers
kiss each other on the cheeks, it is because they are searching
and feeling for the lips. A kiss makes lovers. It was in that
dark and cold December night, amid the bitter lamentations of
the tocsin, that Miette and Silvere exchanged one of those
kisses that bring all the heart's blood to the lips.

They remained silent, closely locked together. Miette had
said, " Let us warm ourselves like this," and they innocently
waited till the warmth came. They soon felt a gentle glow
striking through their clothes, and by degrees their embrace
scorched them, and they found their breasts rising and falling
with the same breath. A soft languor overcame them, and
filled them with a feverish drowsiness. They were quite warm
now, and lights seemed to be passing before" their closed eye-
lids, while confused nois&s mounted to their brains. This state
of painful happiness, which lasted some minutes, seemed end-
less to them. Then, in a kind of dream, their lips met. The
kiss was long and greedy. It seemed to them as though they
had never kissed before. It was fraught with pain to them,
and they released their embrace. Then, when the chillness of
the night had cooled their feverish heat, they remained in great
confusion at some distance from each other.

All this time the bells kept up their ominous dialogue in the
dark abyss which surrounded the young people. Miette,
trembling with fear, did not dare to draw near to Silvere.
Not hearing him move, she did not even know if he was still

172 TnE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

alive. The stinging* sweetness of their kiss still clung to their
lips, to which passionate phrases surged up, and only a blushing
shame at the joy that thrilled them kept them from thanking
each other for the joy they felt and kissing once again, but
their shyness made them prefer foregoing a repetition of their
happiness rather than speak about it aloud. Had not their
rapid walk warmed their blood, had not the darkness of the
night lent its aid, they would, for a long time to come, have
gone on kissing each other on the cheek like old playfellows.
Miette felt ashamed. After Silvere's burning kiss, in this
happy darkness in which her heart awoke, she remembered
Justin's coarseness. A few hours before she had listened,
without blushing, to this fellow who treated her as a shameless
girl, asking when the baptism would take place, and shouting
that his father would deliver her with kicks if ever she thought
of returning to the Jas-Meiffren, and she had cried without
understanding what he meant, she had cried because she
guessed that all this must be base. Now that she was becom-
ing a woman, she told herself, with a last trace of guilelessness,
that the kiss, whose burning smart she still felt, was perhaps
enough to cover her with the shame of which her cousin had
accused her. Then she was seized with remorse, and broke
out into sobs.

"What is the matter; what are you crying for ?" asked
Silvere in a troubled voice.

*' Oh, leave me," she faltered, " I do not know."

Then in spite of herself, as it were, she cried out in the
midst of her tears :

" Ah ! I am a poor unfortunate creature. When I was ten
years old they used to throw stones at me. To-day I am
treated as the vilest of creatures. Justin was right to
despise me before everybody. We have been doing wrong,
Silvere."

The young man, dismayed, clasped her in his arms again,
trying to console her.

*' I love you," he whispered, " I am your brother. Why do
you say that we have been doing wrong ? We kissed each
other because we were cold. You know very well that we
used to kiss each other every evening before separating."

"Oh! not like just now," she said, in a subdued voice.
" You must not do it again. It must not be, for a strange
feeling came over me. People will now smile as I pass, and

THE rORTtJXE OF THE EOXTGOXS. 173

tliey will be quite right to do so. I shall not be able to
defend myself."

The young man remained silent, unable to find a single
word to calm the agitated mind of this big child of thirteen
years, trembling with agitation at her first kiss of love. He
clasped her gentl}^ imagining that he would calm her by
renewing the warm languor of their embrace. She struggled,
however, and continued :

" If you like, we will go away; we will leave the countr}-.
I can never return to Plassans ; my uncle would beat me ; the
whole town would point their finger at me "

Then, as if seized with a sudden irritation, she added :

" No ; I am cursed. I forbid you to leave aunt Dide to
follow me. You must leave me on the highway."

" Miette, Miette ! " Silvere implored ; " don't say that."

" Yes. I want to release you. Do be reasonable. They
have turned me out like a vagabond. If I go back with you,
you will always have to be fighting for my sake, and I don't
want that."

The 3"oung man again imprinted a kiss upon her lips, mur-
muring :

^ ' You shall be my wife, and nobody will then dare to hurt you."

"Oh! please!" she said, with a stifled cry; ''don't kiss
me so. You hurt me,"

Then, after a short silence:

" You know quite well I cannot be your wife. We are too
young. You would have to wait for me, and I should die of
shame. You are wrong to join in the revolt; you will be
forced to leave me in some corner."

Then Silvere, tired out, began to cry. A man's sobs have
a heartrending hoarseness about them. Miette, frightened as
she felt the poor fellow shaking in her arms, kissed him on the
face, forgetting she was burning her lips. It was her fault.
She was a little simpleton to let the stinging sweetness of a
kiss so completely upset her. She did not know why she
had thought of sad things, at the very moment when her lover
was kissing her as he had never done before. And she
clasped him to her bosom, to beg* pardon for having pained
him. These weeping children, locked in each other's anxious
embrace, added another gloom to the dark December night.
In the distance, the bells continued to complain unceasingly in
a more hesitating voice.

174 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONg.

*' It is better to die," repeated Silvere, in the midst of his
sobs ; *' it is better to die."

"Don't cry; forgive me," stammered Miette. "I will be
brave ; I will do all 3^ou wish."

When the young- man had dried his tears :

" You are right," he said ; " we cannot return to Plassans.
But the time has not yet come for me to be a coward. If we
come out of the struggle triumphant, I will go and find aunt
Dide, and we will take her away ever so far with us. If we
are beaten "

He stopped.

" If we are beaten ? " repeated Miette, softl3^

" Then, in God's mercy!" continued Silvere, in a softer
voice, "I shall most likely not be there. You will comfort
the poor old woman. That would be better."

" Yes, that's what you said just now," the young girl
murmured, " it would be better to die."

At this longing for death, they tightened their embrace.
Miette thought to die with Silvere ; the latter, however, had
only spoken of himself, but she felt that he would gladly take
her with him to earth. They would love each other there
more freely than under the sun. Aunt Dide would die like-
wise and rejoin them there. It was, as it were, a rapid
presentiment, a desire for a strange voluptuousness, to which
Heaven, in the mournful tones of the tocsin, was promising an
early gratification. Death ! Death ! The bells repeated this
word with increasing passion, and the lovers abandoned them-
selves to these appeals in the dark ; they fancied they were
taking a foretaste of the last sleep, in that drowsiness in which
thsy were plunged by the warmth of their limbs and the
burning of their lips, which had met once more.

Miette ceased to resist. It was she, now, who pressed her
lips to Silvere's, who sought with a mute ardour that joy,
the stinging smart of which she had not been able to endure at
first. The thought of an approaching death had excited her ;
she no longer felt herself blush as she hung upon her lover.
She seemed as though she would drain to the dregs, before
reposing in the earth, the cup of this new joy, at which she
had barely moistened her lips, and which irritated her by
reason of her inability to at once appreciate to the full all its
unaccustomed sweetness. Beyond the kiss she seemed to
divine something else, which frightened her while it attracted

THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. "I/O

her, amid the whirl of her awakened senses. She was
succumbing- ; in her virginal naivete she would have implored
Silvere to tear down the veil. He, maddened by the caress
she gave him, filled with supreme happiness, without strength,
without other desires, seemed not even to believe in a higher
degree of pleasure.

When Miette was out of breath and felt the pungent
pleasure of the first embrace growing weaker, she resumed :

" I don't want to die unless you will love me. I want you
to love me all the more."

AVords failed her ; not that she was conscious of any shame,
but because she did not know what she desired. She was simply
shaken by a vague inward paroxysm, by a boundless longing
for fruition.

In her simplicity, she would have stamped her foot like a
child clamouring for a bauble.

" I love you, I love you," Silvere repeated in a faltering
voice.

Miette shook her head, she seemed to say it was not true,
that the young man was concealing something from her. Her
free and ardent nature had a secret instinct of the fecundity of
life and rejected death, if she must die without realising it.
This revolt of blood and nerves was naively revealed in the
feverish wandering of her hands and in her stammering
entreaties.

Then, growing calmer, she gently rested her head on the
young man's shoulder, without uttering a word. Silvere bent
down and kissed her. She drank in these kisses slowly, seek-
ing their meaning, their hidden sweetness. She tasted them,
and felt them course through her veins, as she asked herself if
they were of love, of passion. A languor overcame her, she
fell into a gentle slumber, without ceasing to taste Silvere's
caresses in her sleep. The latter had enveloped her in her red
pelisse, drawing the skirt round himself at the same time.
They no longer felt cold. Silvere rejoiced to find, from the
regularity of her respiration, that Miette was slumbering, as
this sleep would enable them to proceed gaily on their way.
He resolved to let her sleep for an hour. The sky was still
black, and the approach of day was but faintly indicated by a
whitish line in the east. There was a pine wood behind the
lovers, and the young man heard it waking with the music of
the morning breezes. The wailing of the bells resounded more

172 THE FORTUNE OF THE HOUGONS.

alive. The stinging- sweetness of their kiss still clung to their
lips, to which passionate phrases surged up, and only a blushing
shame at the joy that thrilled them kept them from thanking
each other for the joy they felt and kissing once again, but
their shyness made them prefer foregoing a repetition of their
happiness rather than speak about it aloud. Had not their
rapid walk warmed their blood, had not the darkness of the
night lent its aid, they would, for a long time to come, have
gone on kissing each other on the cheek like old playfellows.
Miette felt ashamed. After Silvere's burning kiss, in this
happy darkness in which her heart awoke, she remembered
Justin's coarseness. A few hours before she had listened,
without blushing, to this fellow who treated her as a shameless
girl, asking when the baptism would take place, and shouting
that his father would deliver her with kicks if ever she thought
of returning to the Jas-Meiffren, and she had cried without
understanding what he meant, she had cried because she
guessed that all this must be base. Now that she was becom-
ing a woman, she told herself, with a last trace of guilelessness,
that the kiss, whose burning smart she still felt, was perhaps
enough to cover her with the shame of which her cousin had
accused her. Then she was seized with remorse, and broke
out into sobs.

"What is the matter; what are you crying for ?" asked
Silvere in a troubled voice.

" Oh, leave me," she faltered, " I do not know."

Then in spite of herself, as it were, she cried out in the
midst of her tears :

" Ah ! I am a poor unfortunate creature. When I was ten
3'ears old they used to throw stones at me. To-day I am
treated as the vilest of creatures. Justin was right to
despise me before everybody. We have been doing wrong,
Silvere."

The 3^ouug man, dismayed, clasped her in his arms again,
trying to console her.

" I love you," he whispered, " I am your brother. Why do
you say that we have been doing wrong ? We kissed each
other because we were cold. You know very well that we
used to kiss each other every evening before separating."

" Oh ! not like just now," she said, in a subdued voice.
" You must not do it again. It must not be, for a strange
feeling came over me. People will now smile as I pass, and

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 173

they will be quite right to do so. I shall not bo able to
defend myself."

The young- man remained silent, unable to find a single
word to calm the agitated mind of this big child of thirteen
years, trembling with agitation at her first kiss of love. He
clasped her gentl}^, imagining that he would calm her by
renewing the warm languor of their embrace. She struggled,
however, and continued :

" If 3'ou like, we will go away; we will leave the country'.
I can never return to Plassans ; my uncle would beat me ; the
whole town would point their finger at me "

Then, as if seized with a sudden irritation, she added:

" No ; I am cursed. I forbid you to leave aunt Dide to
follow me. You must leave me on the highwa3^"

'' Miette, Miette ! " Silvere implored ; " don't say that."

" Yes. I want to release j'ou. Do be reasonable. They
have turned me out like a vagabond. If I go back with you,
you will always have to be fighting for my sake, and I don't
want that."

The 3^oung man again imprinted a kiss upon her lips, mur-
muring :

"You shall be ni}^ wife, and nobod}' will then dare to hurt you."

"Oh! please!" she said, with a stifled cr^- ; "don't kiss
me so. You hurt me."

Then, after a short silence:

" You know quite well I cannot be your wife. "We are too
3'oung. You would have to wait for me, and I should die of
shame. You are wrong to join in the revolt; you will be
forced to leave me in some corner."

Then Silvere, tired out, began to cry. A man's sobs have
a heartrending hoarseness about them. Miette, frightened as
she felt the poor fellow shaking in her arms, kissed him on the
face, forgetting she was burning her lips. It was her fault.
She was a little simpleton to let the stinging sweetness of a
kiss so completely upset her. She did not know why she
had thought of sad things, at the very moment when her lover
was kissing her as he had never done before. And she
clasped him to her bosom, to beg pardon for having pained
him. These weeping children, locked in each other's anxious
embrace, added another gloom to the dark December night.
In the distance, the bells continued to complain unceasingly in
a more hesitating voice.

178 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

It was not the hard work, however, that distressed her, for she
delighted in her strength, and took a pride in her brawny
arms and broad shoulders. What broke her heart was her
uncle's distrustful surveillance, his continual reproaches, his
attitude of an irritated master. She became at that time a
stranger in the house. Not even a stranger, however, would
have been so badly treated as she. Rebufat took the most
unscrupulous advantage of this poor little relative, whom he
pretended he kept with him out of charity. She repaid this
harsh hospitality ten times over with her work, and yet never
a day passed but he grudged her the bread she ate. Justin
especially excelled in wc-unding' her. Since his mother had
been dead, seeing her without a protector, he exercised all his
evil ingenuity in trying to make the house intolerable to her.
The most ingenious torture which he invented was to speak
to Miette about her father. The poor girl, living away from
the world, under the protection of her aunt who had forbidden
any one ever to pronounce the words " gallej^s" or " convict"
before her, never understood the meaning of these words. It
was Justin who explained it to her by relating, in his own
manner, the story of the murder of the gendarme, and of
Chantegreil's conviction. He never wearied of relating the
details : the convicts had to drag a cannon ball at their feet,
they worked fifteen hours a day, and all died under their
punishment ; the convicts' prison was a frig^htful place, the
horrors of which he described minutely. Miette listened to
him, stupefied, her eyes bathed in tears. Sometimes she was
roused to a sudden violence, and Justin quickly retired before
her clenched fists. lie took a savage delight in thus instruct-
ing her as to the nature of prison life. When his father fell into
a rage with the child for the least negligence, he chimed in,
glad to be able to insult her without danger. And if she
attempted to defend herself he would say :

" Bah ! bad blood always shows itself. You'll finish up with
the galleys like your father."

Miette sobbed, stung to the heart, powerless and over-
whelmed with shame.

At this time, Miette was already growing to womanhood.
Of precocious puberty, she endured her martyrdom with ex-
traordinary energy. She rarely gave way, excepting when
her natural pride succumbed to her cousin's outrages. She
soon came to bear, without a tear, the incessant insults of this

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 179

coward, who watched her as he spoke, fearing lest she should
fly at his face. Then she learnt to silence him by staring
at him fixedly. She had several times felt inclined to run away
from the Jas-Meiffren. She did not do so, however, as her
courage could not brook the idea of confessing herself van-
quished by the persecution which she endured. She certainly
earned her bread, she did not steal the hospitality of the
Rebufats ; this conviction satisfied her pride. She remained
there to continue the struggle, bearing up against it, living in
one perpetual thought of resistance. Her plan was to do her
work in silence, and revenge herself for all harsh treatment by
a mute contempt. She knew that her uncle derived too much
advantage from her to listen readily to the insinuations of
Justin, who longed to get her turned out of doors. She con-
sidered it a sort of defiance, therefore, not to go away of her
own accord.

Her continued voluntary silence was full of strange fancies.
Passing her days in the place, isolated from all the world,
she grew up rebellious, and formed ideas for herself which
would have strangely shocked the good people of the Faubourg.
Her father's fate especially pre-occupied her. All Justin's
abuse recurred to her. She at length accepted and extenuated
the accusation of murder, by saying to herself that her father
had done well to kill the gendarme who tried to kill him. She
learnt the truth of the story from the mouth of a labourer who
had worked in the Jas-MeifTren. From that moment, whenever
she went out, which was very seldom, she did not turn round
if the ragamufiins of the Faubourg followed her, crjang :

"Eh! Chantegreil ! "

She would hasten her steps homeward, her lips pressed
together, her eyes looking black and fierce. When she had shut
the gate, she would cast one long glance, before going in, at
the gang of urchins, She would have become vicious,
have lapsed into a fierce pariah savageness, if her childishness
had not sometimes gained the mastery over her. Her extreme
youth led her into little girlish weaknesses which relieved her.
She would then cry with shame for herself and her father. She
would run and hide herself in a stable and weep to her heart's
content, knowing that, if they saw her crying, they would
torment her all the more. And when she had wept sufficiently,
she would go and bathe her eyes in the kitchen, and lapse
again into her old uncomplaining silence. It was not interest

180 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

alone, however, which prompted her to hide herself ; she carried
her pride in her precocious strength so far that she was un-
willing- to appear a child. In time she would have become
very unhappy. Fortunately she was saved by discovering the
latent tenderness of her loving nature.

The well which w^as in the yard of the house occupied by
aunt Dide and Silvere was a party-well. The w^all of the
Jas-Meiffren cut it in two. Formerly, before the Fouques'
property was united to the large neighbouring estate, the
market- gardeners used this well daily. But since the pur-
chase of the plot, as it was some distance from the out-
houses, the residents in the Jas, who had large reservoirs at
their disposal, did not draw a pail of water from it in a month.
On the other side, however, one could hear the grating of the
pulley every morning — it was Silvere drawing the water for
aunt Dide.

One day the pulley broke. The young wheelwright made
a good strong pulley of oak, which he put up in the evening
after his day's work. He had to climb on the wall. When he
had finished the job he sat astride the coping to rest, and
surveyed with curiosity the large expanse of the Jas-Meiffren.
At last a peasant-girl, who was weeding the ground a few
feet from him, attracted his attention. It was in July, the air
was broiling, although the sun had already sunk to the edge of
the horizon. The peasant-girl had taken off her cloak. In a
white bodice, with a coloured neckerchief tied over her shoul-
ders, and the sleeves of her chemise turned up as far as her
elbows, she was squatting down amid the folds of her blue-
cotton frock, which was suspended by a pair of braces crossed
behind her back. She crawled on her knees as she set to work
to pull up the tares, which she threw into a basket. The
young man could only see her bare arms, tanned b}'' the sun,
stretching out right and left to seize some overlooked weed.
He followed complacently this rapid play of the girl's arms,
finding a singular pleasure in seeing them so firm and quick.
She had raised herself slightly when she perceived he was not
working, but had lowered her head again before he had suc-
ceeded in distinguishing her features. This timid movement
kept him in suspense. He was interrogating himself with regard
to this girl, like an inquisitive lad, whistling mechanically and
keeping time with the chisel which he held, when the latter
slipped out of his hand. The tool fell into the Jas-Meiffren,

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 181

on the curb of the well, and bounded a few feet from the wall.
Silvere looked at it, leaning forward, hesitating" to get over.
But the peasant-girl must have been examining the young
man out of the corner of her eye, for she jumped up without
saying an^'thing, and went to pick up the chisel, which she
handed to Silvere, who then perceived that she was a
mere child. He was surprised and rather frightened. The
young girl raised herself towards him in the red glare of
the sunset. The wall at this spot was low, but nevertheless
too high for her to reach. Silvere bent over on the coping,
while the little peasant- girl stood on tiptoe. They did not
speak, they looked at each other with an air of smiling confusion.
The young man would have liked, indeed, to keep the girl in that
position. She was turning towards him a charming head,
handsom.e black eyes, and red lips, which strangely astonished
and affected him. He had never seen a girl so near ; he did not
know that lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at. Every-
thing seemed to possess such a strange fascination for him —
the coloured neckerchief, the white bodice, the blue cotton
frock suspended by the braces which stretched with the
motion of the shoulders. His glance glided along the arm
which was handing him the tool ; as far as the elbow the arm
was of a golden brown, as though clothed with sun-burn ; but
higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve of the chemise,
Silvere perceived a bare roundness as white as milk. He was
confused ; he bent further over, and at last managed to grasp
the chisel. The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed.
Then they remained still, smiling at each other, the child
beneath with uplifted face, the young man half reclining on
the coping of the wall. They could not part from each other.
They had not exchanged a single word. Silvere forgot even
to say " Thank you."

" What's your name ? " he asked.

" Marie," replied the peasant-girl ; " but everybody calls me
Miette."

She raised herself slightly, and in her clear voice :

*' And yours ? " she asked in her turn.

" ]\ry name is Silvere," the young workman replied.

A silence ensued, during which they seemed to be listening
complacently to the music of their names.

" I'm fifteen years old," resumed Silvere. " And you ? "

*' I ! " said Miette; '' oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints' Day."

M

182 THE FOETUNE OF TEE KOUGONS.

The j^oun^ workman made a gesture of surprise.

"Ah ! really!" he said, laiig-hing-, "and I took you tor a
woman ! You've got big- arms."

She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her
arms. Then they ceased speaking. They remained for another
moment gazing and smiling at each other. As Silvere did not
seem to have any more questions to ask her, Miette quietly
went away and commenced to pluck the weeds again, without
raising her head. He remained on the wall for a while.
The sun was setting ; a stream of oblique rays poured over the
yellow land of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all
ablaze — one would have said it was a fire running along the
ground — and, in the midst of the flaming sheet, Silvere gazed
at the little peasant-girl squatting on the earth, whose bare
arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton frock
was becoming white ; rays of light streamed over her copper-
coloured arms. At last he felt somewhat ashamed of remain-
ing there. He got off the wall.

In the evening Silvere, preoccupied with his adventure, en-
deavoured to question aunt Dide. Perhaps she would know
who this Miette was who had such black eyes and such red
lips. But, since she had lived in the house in the blind-alley,
she had never once given a look behind the wall of the little
yard. It was, to her, an impassable rampart, which blocked up
her past. She did not know — she did not want to know —
what there was now on the other side of that wall, in that old
property of the Fouques, where she had interred her love, her
heart, and her flesh. As soon as Silvere began to question her
she looked at him with childish terror. Was he, then, going
to stir up the ashes of those extinct days, and make her cry,
like her son Antoine ?

" I don't know," she said in a hasty voice, " I don't go out
any more ; I never see anybody." ^

Silvere awaited the morrow with considerable impatience.
As soon as he got to his master's workshop, he drew his fellow-
workmen into conversation. He did not say anything about
his interview with Miette ; he spoke vaguely of a girl whom
he had seen from a distance in the Jas-Meiffren.

<' Oh ! that's Chantegreil ! " cried one of the workmen.

There was no necessity for Silvere to question them, for
his mates told him the story of the poacher Chantegreil and
his daughter Miette, with that unreasoning spite which is

THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGONS. 183

entertained by the mob against social outcasts. The girl,
especiall}^, they treated in a foul manner; and the insulting
gibe of " daughter of a galley-slave" constantly rose to their
lips as an incontestable reason for condemning the poor inno-
cent creature to eternal disgrace.

The wheelwright Vian, an honest, worthy man, at last
silenced them.

" Hold your tongues, foul mouths ! " he said, as he let fall
the shaft of a cart he was examining. " You ought to be
ashamed of yourselves for being so hard upon the child. I've
seen her, the little thing looks a very good girl. Besides, I'm
told she doesn't mind work, and already does as much as any
woman thirty years old. There are some lazy fellows here
who aren't a match for her. I hope, later on, she'll get a good
husband who'll stop this evil talk."

Silvere, who had been chilled by the workmen's jests and
coarse insults, felt the tears rising to his eyes at this last sen-
tence of Vian. He did not, hov/ever, open his lips. He took
up his hammer, which he had laid down near him, and began
to strike, with all his might, the nave of a wheel which he was
binding with iron.

In the evening', as soon as he had returned home from the
workshop, he ran to the wall and climbed upon it. He found
Miette engaged upon the labour of the da}^ before. He
called her. She came to him, with her smile of embarrassment,
with the charming shj^ness of a child brought up in tears.

" You're Chantegreil, aren't you? " he asked her, abruptly.

She recoiled, she ceased smiling, and her eyes turned scowl-
ing black, gleaming with defiance. This fellow was going to
insult her, then, like the others ! She was turning her back
upon him, without replying, when Silvere, perplexed by her
sudden change of countenance, hastened to add :

" Stay, I beg you — I don't want to pain you — I've got so
many things to tell you !"

She turned round, still distrustful. Silvere, who had re-
solved to pour out his unburdened heart, remained speechless,
not knowing how to continue, fearing lest he should commit a
fresh blunder. His whole soul expressed itself in one phrase :

" Would you like me to be your friend?" he said, in a voice
of emotion.

And as Miette, in surprise, raised her once more moist and
smiling eyes to him, he continued with animation ;

184 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGOKS.

" I know that people try to vex you. It's time to put a
stop to it. I will be 3'our protector now. Shall I ? "

The child beamed with delight. This proffered friendship
released her from all her evil dreams of taciturn hatred. She
shook her head and answered :

" No, I don't want you to fight on my account. You'd
have too much to do. Besides which, there are persons from
whom you cannot protect me."

Silvere would have declared that he would defend her
against the whole world, but she closed his mouth with a
coaxing gesture, as she added :

" I am satisfied to have you as a friend."

They then conversed for a few minutes, lowering their
voices as much as possible. Miette spoke to Silvere of her
uncle and her cousin. For all the world she would not have
liked them to catch him sitting thus astride the coping of the
wall. Justin would be implacable with such a weapon against
her. She spoke of her misgivings with the fright of a school-
girl meeting one of her friends with whom her mother has
forbidden her to associate. Silvere merely understood that
he would not be able to see Miette at his pleasure. This made
him very sad. He promised, however, not to climb on the
wall any more. They were both endeavouring to find some
expedient for seeing each other again, when Miette begged
him to go away ; she had just caught sight of Justin, who was
walking about the grounds, in the direction of the well. Sil-
vere quickly descended. When he was in the little yard he
stood at the foot of the wall to listen, irritated by this flight.
After a few minutes he ventured to climb up again and cast a
glance into the Jas-Meiffren, but he saw Justin speaking with
Miette, and quickly withdrew his head. On the following day
he could not see his friend, not even in the distance ; she must
have finished her work. A week passed thus, and the two
friends could not get an opportunity of exchanging a single
word. Silvere was in despair; he thought of going straight
to the Rebufats to ask for Miette.

The party- well was a large one, but not very deep. On
either side of the wall the curb formed a large semi-circle.
The water was only ten or twelve feet down at most. This
slumbering water reflected the two apertures of the well, two
half moons which the shadow of the wall divided with a black
streak. On leaning over, one would have fancied, in the shadj

THE rOETtJNE OF THE BOtJGONS. 1S5

lig-ht, that there were two sheets of glass of singular clearness and
brilliancy. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping of
the ropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors,
these reflections of the firmament, cut out white patches on the
green water, reproducing, with strange exactness, the leaves
of the ivy which had spread along the wall above the well.

One morning, at an early hour, Silvere, as he came to draw
water for aunt Dide, bent over the well mechanically, just as
he was seizing the rope, lie shuddered, and stood motionless
as he leaned over. He fancied he could distinguish, at the
bottom of the well, the head of a young girl who was look-
ing at him with a smile ; but he had shaken the rope, the
troubled water became a confused mirror, no longer re-
flecting a clear image. He waited until the water became
settled, not venturing to stir, his heart beating rapidl3\ As the
ripples of the water gradually widened and died away, he per-
ceived the image reappearing. It oscillated for a long time
with a rocking motion, which lent a vague, unsubstantial grace
to its features. At last it remained stationar}^ It was the
smiling countenance of Miette, her head and shoulders, with
her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue braces.
Silvere then perceived his own image in the other mirror.
Then, knowing that they could see each other, they nodded
their heads. For the first moment, they did not even think of
speaking. Then they exchanged a greeting.

*' Good morning, Silvere."

*' Good morning, Miette."

The strange sound of their voices surprised them. They
had assumed a singular hollow sweetness in this damp hole.
They seemed to come from a distance, with that soft music
of voices heard of an evening in the country. They under-
stood that it would suffice to speak in a whisper, in order to
hear each other. The well echoed the faintest breath. Lean-
ing over its brink, they conversed while gazing at each other.
Miette said how sad she had been for the last week. She was
working at the other end of the Jas, and could only get out
early in the morning. As she said this she made an angry
gesture, which Silvere distinguished perfectly, replying to it
by nodding his head with an air of vexation. They were ex-
changing confidences, as though they were face to face, with
those gestures and facial expressions produced b}^ speech.
They cared but little for the wall which separated them, now

186 THE FORTUNE OF THE HOUGONS.

that they could see each other down there in those hidden
dej^ths.

'' I knew," continued Miette, with a knowing* look, '* that
you came here to draw water every morning" at the same hour.
I can hear the g-rating of the pulley from the house. So I
made an excuse, I pretended that the water in this well boiled
the vegetables better. I intended to come here every morning
to draw water at the same time as you, so that I could say
good morning to you without any one suspecting it."

She smiled innocently as though applauding her trick, and
ended by saying:

" But I did not imagine we should see each other in the
water."

It was, in fact, this unhoped-for pleasure which delighted
them. They only spoke to see their lips move, this new frolic
afforded such amusement to the childishness still left in them.
They resolved, therefore, to use all the means in their power
to meet in this place every morning. When Miette had said
to Silvere that she must go away, she told him he could draw
his pail of water. But Silvere did not dare to shake the rope ;
Miette was leaning over, he could see her smiling face, and it
was too painful to him to efface this smile. He shook the pail
gently, the water murmured, Miette's smile faded Skway. He
stopped, seized with a strange fear ; he fancied he had vexed
her and made her cry. But the child called to him, " Go ! go ! "
with a laugh which was transmitted to him more prolonged
and more sonorous by the echo. She herself noisily let fall a
pail. There was a perfect tempest. Everything disappeared
under the black water. Then Silvere made up his mind to fill
his two pitchers, as he heard the retreating steps of Miette on
the other side of the wall.

From that day, the young people never missed their meeting.
The slumbering water, these Avhite mirrors wherein they contem-
plated their images, added an infinite charm to their interviews
which, for a long time, gratified their childish, playful imagina-
tion. They had no desire to see each other face to face, it
seemed much more amusing to them to use the well as a mirror,
and confide their morning greetings to its echo. They soon
came to look upon the well as an old friend. They loved to
bend over the dull motionless sheet resembling molten silver.
A greenish glimmer hovered below, in a mysterious imperfect
light, which seemed to change the damp hole into some hiding-

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 187

place in the depths of the copsewoocl. They saw each other thus
in a sort of greenish nest bedecked with moss, in the midst of
the fresh water and foliage. The strangeness of this deep
spring, of this hollow tower over which they bent, trembling with
fascination, added an nnavowed delightful fear to their merry
laughter. They conceived the foolish idea of going down and
sitting on the row of large stones which formed a kind of
circular bench, a few inches above the water. They would dip
their feet in the water, converse there for hours and no one
would think of coming to look for them in that place. But
when they asked each other what might be down there, their
vague fears returned, they thought it quite sufficient to let their
reflected images descend to the bottom, in those green glimmers
which watered the stones with strange lights, amongst those
m3^sterious noises which rose from the dark corners. The
sounds, issuing from some invisible source, made them
particularly uneasy; they often fancied that voices were
replying to theirs; then they would remain silent, hearing
a thousand tiny plaints which they could not understand : secret
travail of the moisture, sighs of the air, drops of water gliding
over the stones, falling with the deep sonorousness of a sob.
The}^ would nod affectionately to each other to reassure them-
selves. This attraction, which kept them leaning over the
brink thus, had its point of secret terror, like all poignant
charms. But the well still remained their old friend. It was
such an excellent pretext for their meeting! Justin, who
watched Miette's every movement, never suspected her
eagerness to go and draw water every morning. At times, he
saw her from the distance leaning over, loitering. " xVh ! the
lazy thing ! " he muttered, " how fond she is of dawdling
about ! " How should he suspect that, on the other side of
the wall, there was a wooer contemplating the young girl's
smile in the water, and saying to her: "If that red-haired
donkey Justin ill-treats you, tell me of it, he shall hear from
me ! "

This amusement lasted for more than a month. It was in
July ; the mornings were sultry ; the sun shone brightly, and
it was quite a pleasure to run to this humid spot. It was
delightful to receive the cold breath of the well on their faces,
to make love by the side of this spring, while the skies were
kindling their fires. Miette used to arrive out of breath after
crossing the stubble fields ; as she ran along, her hair fell

188 THE FORTUNE OF THE HOUGONS.

down over her forehead and temples ; with flushed face and hair
in disorder, she would lean over, shaking- with .laughter, almost
before she had had time to set her pitcher down. Silvere,
who was almost always the first at the w^ell, felt, as he saw
her smiling" face hastily appear in the water, that acute joy
which he would have experienced had she thrown herself
suddenly into his arms at the bend of a pathway. Around
them the radiant morning hummed with mirth, a wave of warm
light, resounding with the buzzing of insects, beat against the
old wall, the posts, and the curb-stone. They, however,
heeded not the shower of morning sunshine, nor heard the
thousand sounds rising from the ground ; they were at the
bottom of their green hiding-place, under the earth, in that
hole shrouded wdth mystery and vague terror ; trembling with
delight, as they lost themselves in the enjoyment of its fresh
coolness and dim light.

On some mornings, Miette, unable to maintain a contempla-
tive attitude for long, began to tease ; she would shake the
rope, making drops of water fall purposely, in order to ripple
the clear mirrors and defor.m the images. Silvere would en-
treat her to remain still ; he, more fervid, more concentrated,
knew no keener pleasure than to gaze at his love's image re-
flected distinctly in every feature. She w^ould not listen to
him, however; she would joke and speak in a rough, old
bogey's voice, to wdiich the echo added a hoarse melodiousness.

" No, no," she would chidingly say, " I don't love you to-
day ; I am making faces at you ; see how ugly I am."

She amused herself by contemplating the fantastic form
which their enlarged faces assumed as they danced upon the
water.

One morning she got angr}^ in earnest. She did not find
Silvere at the trysting-place, and w^aited for him for nearly a
quarter of an hour, vainly making the pulley grate. She was
just about to depart in a rage when he arrived. As soon as
she perceived him, she let loose a veritable tempest in the well;
she shook the pail in an irritated manner, making the blackish
water whirl wnth dull splashes against the stones. In vain
Silvere tried to explain that aunt Dide had detained him. To
all his excuses she replied :

" You've vexed me ; I don't want to see you."

The poor lad, in despair, questioned that sombre hole, that
was now so full of lamentable sounds, where, on other days,

THE FORTUNE OF THE BOUGONS. 189

Buch a brig-ht vision awaited him, amid the silence of the
stagnant water. He had to go away without seeing"
Miette. On the morrow, arriving before the time, he
g-azed. sadly into the well, hearing- nothing*, thinking the
obstinate girl would not come, when the child, who was
already on the other side slyly watching his arrival, bent over
suddenly with a burst of laughter. All was forgotten.

And so the story of their love went on in a series of little
dramas and comedies, of which the well was the scene. These
happy depths, with their gleaming mirrors and musical echoes,
quickly ripened their love. They endowed them with such a full
life of their own, and so permeated them with the association of
their youthful love, that, long after they had ceased to come and
lean over the brink, Silvere, as he drew water every morning,
fancied he could see Miette's smiling face in the dim light of
the well's depths, that still quivered and thrilled with the influ-
ences of their former happiness there.

That month of playful love rescued Miette from her mute
despair. She felt the revival of her affections, of her happy
childish carelessness, which had been crushed down by the
hateful loneliness in which she lived. The certainty that she
was loved by somebody, that she was no longer alone in the
world, enabled her to endure the persecutions of Justin and
the boys of the Faubourg. There was now in her heart a song
of joy, whose glad notes drowned their hootings. She thought
of her father with tender pity, and did not now so frequently
give herself up to dreams of bitter vengeance. Her dawning
love cooled her fevered breedings like the fresh breezes
of the early morn. At the same time she acquired the
natural sharpness of a young girl in love. She felt that she
must maintain her old silently rebellious attitude if she wanted
to escape exciting Justin's suspicions. But, in spite of her
efforts, her eyes retained a sweet unruffled expression when the
lad bullied her ; she was no longer able to put on her old black
look of indignant anger. One morning he heard her humming
to herself at breakfast-time.

'' You seem very gay, Chantegreil ! " he said to her sus-
piciously, glancing keenly at her from his lowering eyes. " I
bet you've been up to some of your tricks."

She shrugged her shoulders, though she trembled inwardly
she did all she could to assume her old appearance of in-
jured innocence. But though he suspected that somehow or

190 THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS.

other his victim was manag-ing" to be secretly happy, it was a
long" time before he was able to discover how she contrived to
elude his prying- observation.

Silvere, on his side, enjoyed the most profound happiness.
His daily meetings with Miette made his idle hours pass plea-
santly away. His solitary life, his long silent tete-a-tete with
aunt Dide, were employed in recaUing one by one his remem-
brances of the morning", in revelling in their most trifling de-
tails. From that time, he had such food for thought as recon-
ciled him still more to the lonely and cheerless existence with
his grandmother which he had adopted. He was naturally fond
of hidden spots, of solitary retirement, where he could give him-
self up undisturbed to his thoughts. At this period, he had al-
ready begun to read with avidity all the old odd volumes which
he had picked up at the brokers' shops in the Faubourg, and
which were gradually opening out to him strange and wider
views of religion and morality. His reading — ill-digested and
lacking all solid foundation, gave him glimpses of the world's
vanities and pleasures, especially as women were concerned in
them, which would have seriously disquieted and troubled him if
his heart had not been cooled and calmed by his love. When
Miette came, he received her at first as a companion, then as
the joy and ambition of his life. In the evening, when he had
retired to the little den where he slept, and hung his lamp at
the head of his strap-bedstead, he would be reminded of Miette
in every page of the dusty old volume which he had taken at
random from a shelf above his head and was reading devoutly.
He never came across a young girl, a good and beautiful
creature, in his reading, but he would immediately identify
her with his sweetheart. He would intrude himself into the
narrative as well. If he were reading a love story, it was he
who married Miette at the end, or died with her. If, on
the contrary, he were reading some political pamphlet, some
grave dissertation on social economy, works which he pre-
ferred to romances, with that singular love of difficult sub-
jects which characterises persons of imperfect scholarship, he
still found some means of associating her with such tedious
themes, which he very often could not even understand ;
and he tried to make himself believe that he was learning
how to be good and kind to her when they were married.
He associated her thus with all his visionary dreamings. Pro-
tected by the purity of his own affection against the obscenity

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. lOl

of certain tales of the eighteenth century which fell into his
hands, he found especial pleasure in shutting" himself up with her
in those humanitarian Utopias of which some great minds of our
own time, infatuated by visions of a universal happiness,
have dreamed. Miette became in his mind quite essential
to the abolition of pauperism and the definitive triumph of the
revolution. During whole nights of feverish reading, when
his racked brain was unable to tear itself from the volume,
which he would lay down and take up at least twenty times,
nights full of a voluptuous weariness in which, as though in some
secret orgie, he revelled till the morning, his body cramped by
the narrow walls of his tiny room, his eyes troubled by the
flickering- ^^ellow light, he would abandon himself joyfully to
his restless ardent imagination, constructing new social schemes
of the most absurdly ingenuous nature, where woman, always
in the person of Miette, was worshipped by nations on their
knees. ,^e was predisposed to Utopian ideas by certain here-
ditary influences /his grandmother's nervous disorders became
in him a chronic enthusiasm, striving after everj^thing that
was grandiose and impossible. His solitary childhood, his
imperfect education, had developed his natural tendencies in a
singular manner. But he had not yet reached the age when
the fixed idea plants itself in a man's mind. In the morning,
after he had dipped his head in a bucket of water, he remem-
bered but vaguely his thoughts and visions of the night, and
nothing remained of his dreams but a child-like innocence that
was full of trustful confidence and ^-earning tenderness. He
felt like a child again. He ran to the well, desiring only
to find his sweetheart's smile, and taste the delights of the
radiant morning. And during the day, when thoughts of the
future sometimes made him silent and dreamy, he would often,
prompted b}^ some sudden impulse, spring up and kiss aunt
Dide on both cheeks, while the old woman would gaze anxiously
at him, troubled to see his eyes so bright, and gleaming with a
joy whose story she thought she could divine.

Miette and Silvere, however, began to find it a little mono-
tonous never seeing anything more of each other than their
reflections. They had worn out the novelty of it, and now
began to dream of more exciting pleasures than the well
could afford them. In this longing for reality which possessed
them, they wished to see each other face to face, to run in the
open fields, to return out of breath, their arms around each

102 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROtJGONg.

other's waists, clinging* closely together, to feel surer of each
other's love. Silvere spoke one morning of climbing over the
wall, and walking in the Jas with Miette. But the child
implored him not to commit this folly, which would place her
at Justin's mercy. He promised to seek some other means.

The wall which enclosed the well formed, a little further
on, an abrupt angle which made a sort of recess, where the
lovers would be free from observation, if they were to take
shelter there. The question was how to reach this recess.
Silvere could no longer entertain the idea of climbing over,
as Miette had appeared so afraid. He secretly thought of
another plan. The little door which Macquart and Adelaide
had made one night, had remained forgotten in this remote
corner of the vast neighbouring property ; they had not even
thought of stopping it up. Blackened with the damp and
greened with moss, the lock and hinges eaten away with rust,
it looked like a part of the old wall. Doubtless the key was
lost ; the grass growing on the lower boards, against which
slight mounds had formed, proved amply that no one had
passed by there for many a long year. It was that lost key
which Silvere reckoned on finding. He knew with what
devotion his aunt Dide allowed the relics of the past to rot un-
disturbed where they lay. He searched the house for a week
without any result. He went stealthily every night to see if
he had at last put his hand on the right key during the day.
He tried more than thirty in this way, which had doubtless
come from the old property of the Fouques, and which he picked
up all over the place, against the walls, on the floors, at the
bottom of drawers. He was becoming disheartened, when he
found the precious key at last. It was simply tied by a string
to the latch-key of the street door, which always remained in
the lock. It had hung there for nearly forty years. Every
day aunt Dide must have touched it with her hand, without
ever making up her mind to throw it away, although it could
now only carry her back sorrowfully to her departed pleasures.
When Silvere had convinced himself that it opened the little
door, he awaited the next day, dreaming of the joyful surprise
which he was preparing for Miette. He had not told her
what he had been seeking out.

The next day, as soon as he heard the girl put her pitcher
down, he opened the door gently, sweeping away, with a
push, the tall weeds which covered the threshold. Stretching

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 193

out his head, he perceived Miette leaning- over the brink, look-
ing into the well, quite absorbed in expectation. Then, in a
couple of strides, he reached the recess formed by the wall,
and from there, he called " Miette ! Miette ! " in a soft voice,
which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was
on the coping of the wall. Then, when she saw him in the Jas,
a few steps from her, she gave a faint cry of surprise, and ran
up to him. They took each other's hands, and looked at one
another, delighted to be so near, thinking themselves handsomer
like this, in the warm sunshine. It was the middle of August,
the Feast of the Assumption. The bells were pealing in the
distance, through the still, quiet air. On the great festivals,
there is a feeling of joy and happiness in the very breezes
themselves.

" Good morning, Silvere ! "

" Good morning, Miette ! "

The voice in which they exchanged this morning greeting
sounded quite strange to them. They knew its sound only
when muffled by the reverberations of the well. It seemed to
them as clear as the song of a lark. Ah ! how delightful it
was in this warm corner, in this holiday air ! They still held
each other's hands, Silvere standing against the wall, Miette
leaning slightly forward towards him. They were about to
tell each other all those soft stories which they had not dared to
confide to the dull echo of the well, when Silvere started at a
slight noise, and, turning pale, dropped Miette's hands. He
saw aunt Dide before him, standing motionless on the thres-
hold of the door.

The grandmother had come by chance to the well. Per-
ceiving, in the old black wall the white gap of the doorway
which Silvere had left wide open, she felt a violent shock.
That open gap seemed to her a gulf of light cruelly revealing
her past. She saw herself once more, in the midst of the
morning brightness, running up to the door and treading the
threshold with all the transports of her nervous love.

And Macquart was there awaiting her. She was hanging
on his neck, pressed against his bosom, whilst the rising sun,
entering the yard with her through the door which she had
been in too great a hurry to trouble to shut, bathed them in
its slanting light. It was a sudden phantasm, which roused her
cruelly from the slumber of her old age, like a supreme chastise-
ment, awakening within her a crowd of bitter memories. Had

194 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

the well, had the entire wall, disappeared under the earth, it
conld not have more completely overset her. And, to her amaze-
ment was added a sullen feeling- of resentment and anger
against the sacrilegious hand that had violated this entrance,
and had left that white opening space gaping like a tomb.
She stepped forward, attracted by a kind of fascination. She
halted Avhen she arrived beneath the frame-work of the door.

Then she gazed out before her, with a feeling of pained
surprise. She had been told, it is true, that the old property of
the Fouques was joined to the Jas-Meiffren ; but she would
never have thought the associations of her youth could have
vanished so completel}'. It seemed as though some violent
gust of wind had carried off everything that her memory had
cherished. The old dwelling, the large kitchen-garden, with
its green vegetable beds, had disappeared. Not a stone, not
a tree of former times remained. Instead of the scene in which
she had grown up, and which she had seen but yesterday in
her mind's eye, there lay a strip of barren soil, a large stubble-
field, bare as a desert. Henceforward, Avhen, on closing her
eyes, she strove to recall the objects of the past, this stubble-
field would always appear to her like a shroud of yellowish
drugget spread over the earth where her youth lay buried. In
the presence of all this sordid unloveliness, she felt her heart djnng
a second death. Now all was completely, finally ended. She was
robbed even of her dreams of the past. Then she began to re-
gret she had yielded to the fascination of that white opening, of
that door gaping upon the days which were now for ever lost.

She was about to withdraw and close the accursed door,
without even seeking to discover the hand which had violated
it, when she perceived Miette and Silvere ; but the sight of the
two young lovers, who, with hanging heads, were nervously
expecting every moment that her glance would fall upon them,
struck her with a sudden paroxysm of pain, and glued her to
the spot. She understood now. To the end, she was destined to
see herself there, clasped in Macquart's arms in the bright
sunshine. A second time the door lent itself as an accomplice.
Where love had once passed, there was it passing again. It
was a beginning without end, uniting present joys with future
tears. Aunt Dide saw nothing but weeping, and she felt, as
it were, a rapid presentiment which revealed the two children
with their bleeding hearts stung to the quick. Overwhelmed
by the recollection of a life's sorrow, which this spot had just

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 195

awakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvere. She
alone was guilty ; if she had not originally pierced the wall
Silvere would not now be in that spot, at the feet of a girl,
intoxicating himself with a bliss which stings death into
jealousy.

After a brief silence, she went up to the young man, and,
without uttering a word, took him by the hand. She might,
perhaps, have left them there, to chatter under the wall, had
she not felt that she herself was, to some extent, an accom-
plice in this fatal love. As she walked along with Silvere, she
turned round, hearing Miette's gentle foot-falls, who, quickly
taking up her pitcher, was hastening across the stubble-field.
She was running wildly, glad to escape so easily. Aunt Dide
smiled involuntarily as she watched her bound over the ground
like a runaway goat.

" She is very young," she murmured, " there is plenty of
time."

No doubt she meant that Miette had yet time to suffer and
weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvere, whose ecstatic
gaze had followed the child as she ran off in the bright
sunshine, she simply added :

" Take care, my boy ; this sort of thing kills one sometimes."

She made no further reference to the incident which
had awakened into life all the sorrows that lay slumbering in
the depths of her being. Silence had become a veritable religion
to her. When Silvere came in, she double-locked the door,
and threw the key down the well. She felt sure that by doing
this she could keep the door from compelling her to be an
accomplice in the matter any more. She returned to examine
it for a moment, glad to see it re-assume its gloomy and un-
changeable appearance. The tomb was closed once more ; the
white gap was boarded up for ever with that damp-stained
moss-greened timber, over which the snails had wept their
silvery tears.

In the evening, aunt Dide had one of those nervous attacks
which every now and then set her a-trembling. During these
attacks, she would often talk aloud and ramble incoherently, as
though she were suffering from nightmare. That evening,
Silvere, who was holding her down on her bed, stirred with
deep pity for her poor racked frame, heard her sigh out the
words, "custom-house officer," "fire," "murder." Then she
struggled, she begged for mercy, while she dreamed of

196 THE FOETUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

vengeance. As always happened when the attack was drawing
to a close, she was overwhelmed with a violent panic, and
shivered with fright to such an extent that her teeth chattered
in her head as she partially raised herself up and cast a look of
haggard surprise at the corners of the room, and then fell back
upon the pillow, heaving deep sighs. She was, doubtless, the
victim of some hallucination. Then she drew Silvere to her
bosom, and seemed to begin to recognise him, though she
confused him every moment with some other person.

" There they are ! " she stammered. " Do you see ? They
are going to take you, they will kill you as well — I don't
want them to — Send them away, tell them I won't ; tell them
they are hurting me, staring at me like that "

And she turned to the wall, to avoid seeing the people of
whom she was rambling. After an interval of silence :

"You are near me, my child, aren't you?" she continued.
" You must not leave me. I thought I was going to die just
now. We were wrong to make an opening in the wall. Ever
since then I have been in pain. I was certain that that door
would bring us further misfortune — Oh ! the innocent darlings,
what sorrow ! They will kill them as well, they will be shot
down like dogs."

She relapsed into an unconscious state ; she was no longer
even aware of Silvere's presence. Suddenly she sat up, and
looked at the foot of her bed, with a fearful expression of
terror.

" Why didn't you send them away ? " she cried, hiding her
white head on the young man's breast. " They are still there.
The one with the gun is making signs that he is going to fire."

Shortly afterwards she fell into the heavy slumber that ter-
minated these attacks. On the next day, she seemed to have
forgotten everything. She never again spoke to Silvere of
the morning on which she had found him with a sweetheart
behind the wall.

The 3^oung people did not see each other for two days.
When Miette ventured to return to the well, they resolved not
to recommence the pranks of two days ago. But the meeting
which had been so rudely interrupted had filled them with a
keen desire to meet again by themselves, in some happy
solitude. Weary of the jo^^s afforded by the well, and unwill-
ing to vex aunt Dide by seeing Miette again on the other side
of the wall, Silvere begged the girl to meet him somewhere

THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 197

else. She required but little pressing-, and received the pro-
posal with the willing- smile of a frolicsome lass who has no
thought of evil. What made her smile was the idea that she
was going- to outwit that spy of a Justin. When the lovers
were agreed, they discussed for a long time the choice of a
try sting-place. Silvere proposed the most impossible hiding
places. He planned regular journeys, and even proposed to
meet the young girl at midnight in the granaries of the Jas-
Meiffren. Miette, who was much more practical, shrugged
her shoulders, declaring she would try to think of some place.
The next day, she only stopped a minute at the well, just time
enough to smile at Silvere and tell him to be at the end of the
Aire Saint-Mittre at about ten o'clock in the evening. You
ma}'' be sure the young man was punctual. All day, Miette's
choice had puzzled him. His curiosity increased when he
found himself in the narrow lane formed by the piles of planks
at the end of the plot of ground. " She will come this way,"
he said to himself, looking along the road to Nice. Then he
heard a loud shaking of boughs behind the wall, and saw a
laughing head, with hair disordered, appear above the coping,
merrily crjdng to him :

"It's me!"

And it was, in fact,^ Miette, who had climbed like a lad up
one of the mulberry trees, which to-day still border the
boundary of the Jas-Meiffren. In a couple of leaps she
reached the tombstone, half buried in the corner of the wall at
the end of the lane. Silvere watched her descend with
delight and surprise, without even thinking of helping her.
He took both her hands in his, and said :

" How nimble 3'ou are ; you climb better than I do."

It was thus that they met for the first time in that hidden
corner where they were destined to pass such happy hours.
After that evening, they saw each other there nearly every
night. The well was only useful now to enable them to warn
each other of unforeseen obstacles to their meetings, of a
change of time, of all the trifling little news, important in their
eyes, and allowing of no dela3\ It was sufficient for the one
who had a communication to make to the other to put the
pulley in motion, the creaking noise of which could be heard a
long way off. But although, on some days, they called each
other two or three times to speak of some trifles of an immense
importance, it was only in the evening in that lonely little

198 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

passage that they tasted full happiness. Miette was exception-
ally punctual. Fortunately she slept over the kitchen, in a room
where the winter provisions had been kept before her arrival,
and which was reached by a little private staircase. She could
thus g"0 out at all hours, without being* seen by either Rebufat
or Justin. She intended, moreover, if the latter ever saw her
return, to tell him some tale, staring at him with that stern
look which always reduced him to silence.

Ah ! how happy those warm evenings were ! It was then
in the first days of September, a month of bright sunshine in
Provence. The lovers could hardly join each other before nine
o'clock. Miette arrived from over the wall. She soon acquired
such dexterity in surmounting this obstacle that she was almost
always on the old tombstone before Silvere had time to stretch
out his arms to her. She would laugh at her own strength and
agility, as she stood for a moment quite breathless, and her hair
in disorder, while she tapped her skirt to make it fall down.
Her sweetheart laughingly called her a ''naught^__tom-boy.''
He really much admired the girl's pluck. He watched her
jump over the wall with the calmness of an elder brother
assisting at the exercises of a younger one.^TEere was yet
much that was child-like in their growing love. On several
occasions they planned a bird's-nesting expedition on the banks
of the Viorne.

" You'll see how I can climb," said Miette proudly.
'' When I was at Chavanoz, I used to go right up to the top
of old Andre's walnut trees. Have you ever taken a mag-
pie's nest ? It's very difficult ! "

And then a discussion arose about the way to climb a
poplar. Miette stated her opinions, with all a hoy's norffjdftnnpi.

Then Silvere, clasping her round the knees, lifted her to
the ground, and they walked side by side, their arms circling
each other's waists. As they wrangled about the manner in
which the feet and hands ought to be placed at the parting of
the branches, they clasped each other more closely, and began
to feel a warmth they had never felt before, a warmth which
made them glow with a strange joy. They had never experi-
enced such a feeling of joy at the well. They were but chil-
dren, with their frolicsome games and conversations, yet they
were enjoying the pleasures of love without even knowing
how to speak of love, by simply touching each other with their
fingers' ends. Impelled by an instinctive desire, they sought

THE FORTUNE OF THE HOUGOXS. 199

the warmth of each other's hands, quite ignorant whither their
feeUngs and their hearts were drifting. In those moments of
happy innocence, they were not even conscious of the
strange thrills which the slightest touch of each awoke in
the other. Smiling, often wondering at the delightful sensa-
tions they felt as soon as they touched each other, they aban-
doned themselves unconsciously to the sweetness of their new
feelings, talking all the while, like a couple of schoolboys, of
the magpies' nests which are so difficult to reach.

They passed along the silent path, between the piles of
planks and the wall of the Jas-Meiffren. They never went
beyond the end of this narrow blind alley, retracing their steps
each time. They were quite at home there. Miette, happy in
the knowledge of their safe concealment, would often stop and
congratulate herself on her discovery.

" Am I not lucky ? " she would say, with glee. " AYe might
walk a long way without finding such a good hiding place."

The thick grass muffled the noise of their footsteps. They
were buried in a shadowy darkness, and shut in between two
gloomy walls, through which only a strip of dark blue, spangled
with stars, was visible above their heads. And as they stepped
along over the billowing ground, as they paced this alley
which resembled a stream of darkness flowing under the black
star-sprent sky, they felt the thrill of an emotion they could
not have defined, and lowered their voices, although there
was nobody there to hear them. Letting themselves drift
along, as it were, through the darkness on its silent waves,
buoj^ant both in body and mind, they related to each other on
those evenings, with lover's raptures, the thousand trifles of
the day.

At other times, on bright nights, when the wall and the
piles of planks cast clearly defined shadows in the moonlight,
Miette and Silvere would romp about with all the careless-
ness of children. The alley stretched along, gaily lighted
with white rays, retaining no suggestion of secrecy, and the
two comrades laughed and chased each other like boys at play,
venturing even to climb on to the piles of timber. Silvere was
sometimes obliged to frighten Miette, telling her that Justin
might be watching her behind the wall. Then, quite out of
breath, they would walk side by side, and make plans to go
one day for a scamper in the Sainte-Claire meadows, to see
which of the two would catch the other the quicker.

200 THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

Their growing love thus accommodated itself to the dark as
■well as to the clear nights. Their hearts were ever on the alert,
and a little shade was sufficient to sweeten the pleasure of their
embrace, and brighten the charm of their laughter. This
beloved retreat, so gay in the moonshine, so strangely affected
by the gloom, seemed the inexhaustible source of peals of
laughter, and thrilling silences. They would remain there
until mid-night, till the town had dropped off to sleep and the
lights in the windows of the Faubourg had gone out one by one.

They were never disturbed in their solitude. At that late
hour, children were no longer playing hide-and-seek behind the
piles of planks. Occasionally, when the young couple heard
sounds in the distance, workmen singing as they passed along the
road, and voices coming from the neighbouring sidewalks, they
cast stealthy glances out on the Aire Saint-Mittre. The
timber-yard stretched out, empty of all, save here and there
some falling shadows. On sultry evenings, they sometimes
caught glimpses of loving couples there, and of old men
sitting on the logs by the roadside. When the evenings grew
colder, all they ever saw in the melancholy and deserted place
was some gipsy fire, with large black shadows passing before it.
Through the still night air words and faint sounds were wafted
along to them, the good-night of a townsman shutting his door,
the closing of a window-shutter, the deep striking of the clocks,
all those expiring sounds of a provincial town retiring to rest.
And when Plassans was slumbering, they still heard the
quarrels of the gipsies, the crackling of their fires, in the midst
of which suddenly rose the guttural voices of young girls
singing in a strange tongue, full of rug-ged accents.

But the lovers did not concern themselves much with what
went on in the Aire Saint-Mittre ; they hastened back to
their own little privacy, to walk again in their favourite spot,
so hidden and retired. Little did they care for others, for the
whole town ! The few planks which separated them from the
wicked world seemed to them, after a w^hile, an insurmount-
able rampart. They were so secluded, so free in this nook,
situated though it was in the very midst of the Faubourg,
and only fifty steps from the Porte de Rome, that they
sometimes fancied themselves far away in the remotest
parts of some hollow of the Viorne, in the open country. Of
all the noises which reached them, only one made them feel
uneasy, that of the clocks striking slowly in the darkness, At

THE FORTUNE OF THE KOtJGONS. 201

limes, when the hour sounded, they pretended not to hear, and
sometimes they stopped short as if to protest. However, they
could not go on for ever taking- just another ten minutes, and
the time came when they were at last obliged to say good-
night. They would have liked to continue chatting and
walking arm-in-arm till the morning, in order that they
might still experience that strange thrill whose unavowed
sweetness filled them with continual surprise. Miette at last
determined to remount the wall. But all was not at an end
yet, and they lingered over their leave-taking for a good
quarter of an hour. When the girl had mounted on to the top
of the wall, she remained there with her elbows on the coping,
and her feet supported by the branches of the mulberry tree,
which served her as a ladder. Silvere, standing up on the
tombstone, was able to take her hands again, and recommence
their whispered conversation. They repeated ' ' till to-morrow ! "
more than ten times, and always found something more to say.
Silvere began to scold.

" Come, you must get down, it is past midnight."

But Miette, with a girl's waywardness, wished him to
descend first ; she wanted to see him go away. And as the
young man held out, she ended by saying abruptly, in order to
frighten him :

" Look ! I am going to jump down."

And she jumped from the mulberry tree, to the great con-
sternation of Silvere. He heard the dull thud of her fall, then,
with a burst of laughter, she ran off, without choosing to reply
to his last adieu. He remained several moments watching her
vague shadow disappear in the darkness, then, slowly descend-
ing, he regained the Impasse Saint-Mittre.

They came there every day for two years-. At the time of
their first meetings, they enjoyed some beautiful warm nights.
The lovers might almost have fancied themselves in the month
of May, the month of the seething sap, when an agreeable
odour of earth and fresh leaves pervades the warm air. This
vernal season, this late spring was like a heaven's blessing upon
them, and it allowed them to run freely about the alley and
tighten the bonds of their friendship.

Then came rain, and snow, and frost. These ill-humours
of the winter did not keep them away. Miette put on her
large brown pelisse, and they both defied the bad weather.
AVhen the night was dry and clear, and gentle gusts of wind

202 THE FOETUKE OF THE ROUGONS.

raised beneath their footsteps a dust of hoar-frost, striking'
against their faces like blows from tiny drumsticks, they
refrained from sitting* down, walking- quickly to and fro,
wrapped round with the pelisse, their cheeks blue with
cold, and their eyes watering ; and, shaking with mirth and
merry laughter, they walked on sharply in the freezing
atmosphere. One snowy evening they amused themselves by
making an enormous snowball, which they rolled into a corner.
It remained there quite a month, which caused them fresh
astonishment every time they met there. Nor did the rain
frighten them. They came to see each other in the heaviest
showers, though they got wet to the skin in doing so. Silvere
would run out, saying to himself that Miette would not be mad
enough to come ; and when Miette arrived, in her turn, he could
not find it in his heart to scold her. In reality he was expect-
ing her. At last he sought some shelter against the inclement
weather, knowing quite well that they would come out all the
same, in spite of their mutual promise not to put foot out of
doors while it rained. To find a shelter, he had only to disturb
one of the piles of planks ; he pulled out several pieces of wood
from it, and arranged them so that they would move easily, in
order to displace and replace them at pleasure.

From that time the lovers had at their disposal a sort of low
and narrow sentry-box, a square hole, which was only big
enough to hold them when squeezed closely together, sitting
on the end of a joist they had left at the bottom of their
little cell. When it rained the first-comer used to seek shelter
there ; and when they found themselves together again, they
w^ould listen with infinite pleasure to the rain beating on
the piles of planks like the dull roiling of a drum. Before
them, around them, in the inky blackness of the night,
there was a sound of dripping water which they could not
see, the continuous noise of which resembled the roar of a
mob. They were nevertheless quite alone, as though they
had been at the end of the world or at the bottom of the
sea. They never felt so happ}^, so isolated, as in the midst
of this deluge, in this pile of planks which the torrents from
heaven threatened to carry away at every moment. Their
bent knees were almost on a level with the opening, and
they thrust themselves back as far as possible, their cheeks
and hands bathed by the fine rain. Big drops, falling from
the planks, splashed at regular intervals at their feet. The

THE For/rtxE or The eougoxs. 203

brown pelisse kept them warm, the space was so limited that
Miette was compelled to sit almost on Silvere's knees. They
would chatter ; then thej would keep silent, overcome with
languor, lulled by the warmth of their embrace and the
monotonous beating- of the shower. They would remain there
for hours, with that same enjoj^ment of the rain which prompts
little children to stroll along solemnly in stormy weather with
open umbrellas in their hands. After a while they came to
prefer the rainy evenings. Their parting, however, became
more painful on those occasions. Miette was obliged to climb
the wall in the driving rain, and cross the puddles of the Jas-
Meiffren in perfect darkness. As soon as she left his arms,
Silvere lost her amidst the gloom and noise of the water. In
vain he listened, deafened, blinded. The anxiety caused by
this cruel separation was an additional charm ; until the morrow,
each would be uneasy lest anything had befallen the other.
In such weather, when it was too bad even to turn a dog out
of doors, perchance one of them had slipped, or lost the way ;
mutual fears which tyrannically possessed them, and rendered
their next interview more loving.

At last the fine days returned, April brought calm nights,
the grass in the green alley grew wildly. In the stream of
life flowing from heaven and rising from the earth, in the midst
of the intoxication of the budding spring-time, the sweethearts
sometimes regretted their winter solitude, the rainy evenings
and the freezing nights, during which they were so isolated, so
far from all human sounds. Xow the day did not draw to a
close quickl}^ enough, they bitterly reproached the lagging
twilights, and when the night had become dark enough for
Miette to climb on to the wall without danger of being seen,
and when they were at last gliding along their dear path, they
no longer found there the solitude congenial to the wild nature
of their childish love. People began to flock to the Aire
Saint-Mittre, the urchins of the Faubourg remained there,
romping about the beams, and shouting, till eleven o'clock at
night. It even happened occasional]}" that one of them would
go and hide behind the piles of timber, and assail Miette and
Silvere with the impudent jeers of a little ten-year old rascal.
The fear of being surprised, the general awakening, the sounds
of life which increased around them as the season grew
warmer rendered their meetings anxious and disturbed.

Then they began to feel stifled in the narrow lane. Never

204 THE FORTUNE OI' THE EOUGOXS.

had it seemed to throb with so warm an emotion ; never had
the ground, that soil in which the last bones of the former
cemetery were mouldering", exhaled such an oppressive atmo-
sphere. They were still too childish to appreciate the volup-
tuous charm of this waste spot, delirious with the fever of
spring". The grass was growing up to their knees, they moved
to and fro with difficulty, and when they crushed the young
shoots, certain plants emitted a pungent odour which made
them dizzy. Then, seized with a strange drowsiness and
staggering with giddiness, their feet as though bound by the
grass, they would lean against the wall, with half-closed eyes,
unable to move a step. They felt as if all the soft languor of
the skies were breathing itself into them.

With the petulance of beginners, impatient and irritated at
these qualms of sudden faintness, they began to accuse their
retreat of being too confined, and decided to take their loving
rambles farther away in the open fields. Every evening there
were fresh frolics. Miette came with her pelisse ; they both
wrapped themselves in the large garment, and then the}^ darted
along by the walls and reached the high-road and the open
countr}^, the broad fields where the wind rolled mightily, like
the waves at high tide. There they no longer felt stifled ; they
recovered all their old youthfulness again, and felt no more
the giddiness and intoxication which were caused by the rank
weeds of the Aire Saint-Mittre.

They rambled about this part of the neighbourhood for two
summers. Every rocky ledge, every bed of turf knew them
well ; and there was not a cluster of trees, a hedge, or a
thicket, which did not become their friend. They realised their
dreams : they chased each other wildly over the Sainte-Claire -
meadows, and Miette being a good runner, Silvere had to put
his best foot forward to catch her. Sometimes they went to
rob magpies' nests. Headstrong INIiette, wishing to show how
well she used to climb trees at Chavanoz, would tie up her
skirts with a piece of string, and ascend the highest poplars ;
Silvere stood trembling beneath, with outstretched arms, to
catch her if she slipped. These frolics so completely put into
abeyance all feeling of passion that one evening they almost
J fought like a couple of lads coming out of school. In the
open country they had no occasion to go lurking in secret
hiding places, and as they rambled along they were continually
shouting with laughter, pushing and teasing each other. They

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGON^S. 205

covered miles and miles ; sometimes they went as far as
the chain of the Garrigues, following* the narrowest paths
and often cutting* across the fields. The country belonged to
them ; they lived there as in a conquered territory, enjoying
all that the earth and the skj'- could give them. Miette, with a
woman's lack of scruple, did not hesitate to pluck a bunch of
grapes, or a cluster of green almonds, from the vines and
almond-trees which brushed her with their boughs as she
passed ; this vexed Silvere's upright ideas, although he did not
venture to find fault with the girl, whose occasional sulkings
distressed him. " Oh ! the bad girl ! " thought he, childishly ex-
aggerating the matter, " she would make a thief of me." Then
Miette would put his share of the stolen fruit into his mouth.
The artifices he emplo3'ed, holding her round the waist, avoiding
the fruit trees, making her run after him when near the grape
vines, to keep her out of the way of temptation, quickly ex-
hausted his imagination. Then there was nothing to do but to
make her sit down. It was then that they again began to feel
the old stifling sensations. The gloom of the valley of the Yiorne
had an especially disturbing influence upon them. When
weariness brought them to the banks of the torrent, all their
childish gaiety seemed to disappear; grey shadows floated
under the willows, like the scented crape of a woman's dress.
The children felt this crape, perfumed and warm from the
voluptuous shoulders of the night, kiss their temples and
envelop them with an irresistible lassitude. In the distance,
the crickets chirped in the meadows of Sainte-Claire, and at
their feet the Yiorne sounded like lovers' whispers and the soft
cooings of humid lips. The stars rained down a gentle light
from the slumbering heavens. And beneath the throbbing
sky, surrounded by the murmurs of the waters and the
darkness, the children, lying side by side on the grass, with
beating breasts and eyes that wandered vaguely through the
gloom, sought each other's hands and pressed them hastily.

Silvere, who vaguely understood the danger of these
ecstasies, sometimes jumped up suddenly, proposing to cross
over to one of the islets left by the low water in the middle of
the river. Both ventured forth, with bare feet. Miette made
light of the pebbles, refusing Silvere's help, and it happened
once that she sat down right in the middle of the stream ; there
were not more than a few inches of water, however, and she
got off with nothing worse than a wet petticoat. Then, having

206 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOKS.

reached the island, they threw themselves fiat on the long neck
of sand, their eyes on a level with the surface of the water, in
which they saw afar, in the clear night, the quivering of silvery
scales. Miette would declare that they were in a boat, and
that the island was certainly floating; she was sure she felt it
carrying her along. The dizziness caused by the rippling of
the water which dazzled their eyes amused them, and
made them linger for a while on the bank, singing in an
undertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their
oars. At other times, when the edge of the island assumed
the shape of a low bank, they sat there on a bed of verdure,
and let their bare feet dangle in the stream. And for hours
they chatted there, kicking their heels and splashing the water,
and swinging their legs, taking pleasure in unchaining a tempest
in the peaceful pool which cooled their fever with its freshness.

These footbaths suggested an idea to Miette's mind, which
nearly put an end to their innocent affection. Nothing would
satisfy her but a complete bath. A little above the bridge over
the Yiorne there was a very convenient hole, she said, barely
three or four feet deep and quite safe ; it was so warm, it would
be so nice to have the water up to their necks ; besides which,
she had been djdng to learn to swim for such a long- time, and
Silvere would be able to teach her. Silvere raised objections ;
it was not prudent at night time ; they might be seen, very
likely it would do them harm ; but he did not tell her the real
reason of his objection, which was that he felt very much dis-
turbed at the idea of this new recreation, and asked himself how
the}^ would manage to undress, and how he was going to support
Miette in the water with his naked arms. To Miette herself
these difficulties did not appear to have suggested themselves.

One evening she brought a bathing costume which she had
made out of an old dress. Silvere was obliged to go back to
aunt Dide's to look for his bathing drawers. Their proceedings
were characterised by great simplicity. Miette did not even
go on one side ; she undressed as though it were quite a matter
of course, beneath the shade of a willow so thick that her
childish body only appeared with indistinct whiteness for a few
seconds. Silvere, with his brown skin, looked, in the gloom of
the evening, like the dark stem of a young oak, whilst the
young girl's legs and arms, naked and round, resembled the
milky- white trunks of the birch trees on the bank. Then both
of them, clothed with the dark shadows which the lofty foliage

The fortUxe of the rottgoxs. 207

cast around them, entered gaily into the water, forgetting
their scruples, their unavowed shame, and secret modesty.
They remained there quite an hour, splashing and throwing
water into each other's faces ; Miette now getting cross,
now breaking out into laughter, while Silvere gave her
her first lesson, dipping her head under from time to time, to
accustom her to the water. As long as he held her by the waist-
band of her costume with one hand, placing the other under
her, she threw her arms and legs about violently, thinking she
was swimming; but, as soon as he let her go, she cried and
struggled, striking the water with her outstretched hands,
clutching at anything she could get hold of, the youBg man's
waist or one of his wrists. She leant against him for an instant,
resting herself, out of breath and dripping with water, while her
wet costume delineated the graces of her virgin figure. Then
she cried :

" Once more ; but you do it on purpose, you don't hold me."

No thought of shame came to them as Silvere held her
in his arms, or bent over her to support her, or at these
desperate clutchings of Miette, as she hung on to the young
man's neck. The coldness of the bath put them in a state of
crystal purity. They were only two nude innocents laughing
in the warm night, in the midst of the drooping foliage ; Silvere
after the first few baths, secretly reproached himself for having
dreamt of evil. Miette undressed so quickly, was so cool in
his arms, so full of laughter !

At the end of a fortnight, the girl was able to swim. With
her limbs moving freely, rocked by the stream, and plajdng
with it. she yielded herself up to the soft motions of the river,
the silence of the heavens, and the dreams of the melancholy
banks.

As they both svram noiselessly along, Miette seemed to see
the foliage of both the banks thicken and hang over them,
draping them round with an enormous curtain. When the
moon shone, its ra^-s glided between the trunks of the trees,
and soft-toned apparitions seemed to her to be flitting along the
river-side in white robes. She felt no nervousness, but only
an indefinable emotion as she followed the play of the shadows.
As she skimmed along with a slower movement, the calm
water, which the moon converted into a bright mirror, rippled
at her approach like a silver-broidered cloth ; and the widening
eddies lost themselves in the shadows of the banks, under the

208 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS,

hang-ing willow branches, from whence issued weird, plashing*
sounds. At every stroke, she seemed- to perceive recesses
full of sound, dark cavities which she hastened to pass
by, clusters and rows of trees, whose sombre masses
were continually changing* form, stretching- forward and
apparently following her from the top of the bank. When
she threw herself on her back, the depths of the heavens
affected her still more. From the fields, from the distant
horizon, which she could no longer see, she heard wafted
towards her a solemn lingering strain, composed of all the
sighs of the night.

She was not of a dreamy nature, she enjoyed, with her
whole soul and body the sky, the river, the lights and
shadows. The river, especially, with its flowing waters, filled
her with ceaseless satisfaction. When she swam against the
current, she experienced a great pleasure in feeling the stream
flow rapidly against her bosom and limbs. It was a continuous
gentle tickling, which did not force her into hysterical laughter.
She plunged in deeper, with the water up to her lips, so that
the stream passed over her shoulders, and enveloped her, from
chin to feet, with its flying kisses. She floated, languid and
quiescent, on the surface, whilst the ripples glided softly between
her costume and her skin, bellying out the material of which the
former was made ; then she rolled herself over in the still pools
like a cat on a carpet; she swam from luminous patches of
water in w^hich the moonbeams were bathing into dark water
shaded by the foliage, shivering as though she had quitted a
sunny plain and felt the cold from the boughs falling on her
neck.

She had begun now to go some way off to undress, and to
screen herself from observation. In the water, she remained
quite silent and would not allow Silvere to touch her; she
would glide softly along by his side, swimming with the light
rustling of a bird traversing a copse in its flight ; and some-
times she would circle round him, a prey to vague fears which
she did not comprehend. He himself darted quickly away if
he happened to brush against one of her limbs. The river
was now only a source of enervating intoxication to them,
a voluptuous languor, which disquieted them strangely. When
they got out of their bath, they experienced a feeling of
drowsiness and dizziness. They felt quite tired and weary.
Miette took a good hour to dress. She only put on her chemise

THE FOETUNE 0:P THE EOUGONS. 209

and her skirt at first ; then she threw herself down on the grass,
complaining of fatigue, calling to Silvere who stood a few steps
off, his head swimming and his limbs full of a strange and
exciting lassitude. As they returned home, there was more
ardour in their embrace, and their bodies felt more lithe and
sinuous beneath their clothes after the refreshing influences of
their bath ; and every now and then they slackened their pace
and sighed heavily. Miette's enormous coil of hair that was
still damp, her neck, her shoulders all had a fresh pure odour
about them which completely intoxicated the young man.
Fortunatel}^ the girl declared one evening that she would not
bathe any more, as the cold water made the blood run to her
head. And it was in all truth and innocence that she said
this.

They recommenced their long conversations. The dangers
into which innocent love had just been leading them had left
no other trace in Silvere's mind than a great admiration for
Miette's physical strength. She had learned to swim in a fort-
night, and often, when they raced, he had seen her stem the
current with a stroke as rapid as his own. He, who delighted
in strength and bodily exercises, felt his heart moved in seeing
her so strong, so brave, so physically active. He felt a
singular admiration for her stout arms. One evening, after
one of those early baths that left them so playful, they caught
hold of each other round the waist on a neck of sand, and
wrestled for several minutes, during which Silvere was unable
to throw Miette ; at last the young man lost his equilibrium,
and the girl remained standing. Her sweetheart treated her
like a bx^Xi ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ these long rambles, these mad races
across the meadows, these nests stolen from the tops of the
trees, these struggles and violent games, which so long protected
them and their love from all impurity. Be^'ond his admira-
tion for his romping sweetheart, there was in Silvere's affection
the tenderness which his kind heart felt for the unfortunate.
He who could not see a forsaken creature, a poor man, or a
child walking barefooted in the dusty roads, without feeling a
throb of pity, loved Miette because nobody else loved her,
because she led an outcast's hard existence. When he saw
her smile, he was deeply moved by the joy he caused her.
Moreover, the child was an outcast like himself, and they
agreed with each other in their hatred of the gossips of the
Fciubourg. The dreams in which he indulged in the daytime,

210 THE FOETUNE OF THE PiOUGONS*

as be nailed the tires round tlie cartwheels with his heavy
hammer in his master's shop, were full of generous enthusiasm.
He looked upon himself as Miette's red.££m£r. All his reading
got into his head ; he wished to marry his sweetheart one day,
in order to raise her in the e3'es of the world. He imposed up-
on himself the holy mission of regaining and redeeming the
convict's daughter. And his head was so crammed with certain
arguments, that he did not simply say these things to himself,
he lost himself in a perfect social mysticism ; he imagined a
rehabilitating apotheosis for her, in which he saw Miette sitting
on a throne, at the end of the Cours Sauvaire, and the whole
town prostrating itself before her, asking her pardon and sing-
ing her praises. Happily he forgot all about these fine
thoughts as soon as Miette jumped over the wall, and said to
him on the high road :

" Let us have a race ! I bet you won't catch me."
But if the young man dreamt when wide awake of the
glorification of his sweetheart, he felt such a necessity for
justice that he often made her cry by speaking to her about
her father. In spite of the softening effect which Silvere's
friendship had had upon her, she would still from time to time
give way to angry outbreaks of temper ; she had fits of
moroseness, when the stubbornness and rebellion of her excit-
able nature still raged rampantly within her, as she glared
with scowling eyes and tight-drawn lips. Then she would
maintain that her father had done quite right in killing the
gendarme, that the earth belongs to everybody, and that one
has the right to fire a gun when one likes and where one likes.
And Silvere, in a grave voice, explained the law to her as he
understood it, with strange commentaries which would have
startled the whole magistracy of Plassans. These discussions
took place most often in some remote corner of the Sainte-
Claire meadows. The grassy carpet of a dusky green hue
stretched its immense extent further then they could see, un-
dotted even by a single tree, and the sky seemed colossal, filling
the bare roundness of the horizon with its stars. The young
couple were being rocked, as it were, on a sea of verdure.
Miette argued the point obstinately ; she asked Silvere if her
father should have allowed himself to be killed by the gen-
darme, and Silvere, after a momentary silence, said that, in
such a case, it was better to be the victim than the murderer,
and that it was a great misfortune for any one to kill a fellow

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 211

man, even in legitimate defence. The law was something- holy
to him, the judges were right to send Chantegreil to the gallej^s.
The young girl grew angry, and almost struck her sweetheart,
crying out that he was as heartless as the rest. And as he
continued to firmly defend his ideas of justice, she finished by
bursting into sobs, and stammering out that doubtless he was
ashamed of her, since he was alwaj^s reminding her of her
father's crime. These discussions ended in tears, in a mutual
emotion. But although the child cried and acknowledged that
she was perhaps wrong, she still retained her wildness and
her hot temper. . Once she related, with hearty laughter,
how a gendarme had broken his leg in falling off his horse in
front of her. Moreover, Miette only lived for Silvere. When
he asked her about her uncle and cousin, she replied " she
did not know," and if he pressed her, fearing that they made
her unhappy at the Jas-Meiffren, she said that she worked hard,
that nothing had changed. She believed, too, that Justin had
at last found out what made her sing in the morning, and filled
her eyes with delight, But she added :

" What does it matter ? If he ever comes disturbing us,
we'll receive him, won't we, in such a way that he won't be in
a hurry to meddle with our affairs again."

Nevertheless, the open country, and the long rambles in the
fresh air, wearied them sometimes. They always came back
to the Aire Saint-Mittre, to the narrow alley, whence they
had been driven by the noisy summer evenings and the pun-
gent scent of the trodden grass, and the warm and oppressive
breezes. But on certain nights the alley was cooler, and
the winds freshened it so that they could remain there without
feeling faint. Then they enjoyed a sensation of delightful re-
pose. Sitting on the tombstone, their ears deaf to the noise of
the children and gipsies, they felt quite happy and undis-
turbed. Silvere had picked up, on various occasions, fragments
of bones, pieces of skulls, and they loved to speak of the
ancient burial ground. It seemed to them, in their lively fancies,
that their love had shot up like some vigorous plant in this
corner of the soil which dead men's bones had fertilised.

It had grown like those wild weeds, it had blossomed like
those corn-poppies which sway on their stalks at the slightest
breeze, like naked bleeding hearts. And they came to the
conclusion that the warm breaths passing over their faces,
the whisperings heard in the gloom, the long throbs which

212 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

thrilled the alley, were the dead folk sighing their departed
passions in their faces, and telling them the stories of their
wedding nights, as they turned restlessly in their graves,
seized with a fierce longing to live and love again. These
fragments of bone, they felt convinced, were full of affection
for them ; the shattered skulls grew warm again with their
own youthful fire, the smallest particles breathed round them
with a passionate whisper, an anxious solicitude, a throbbing
watchfulness. And when they departed, the old burial ground
seemed to groan. Those weeds, which entangled their feet on
sultry nights and, made them stumble, were fingers, tapered
by the tomb, which sprang up from the earth to detain them
and throw them into each other's arms. That pungent and
penetrating odour exhaled by the broken stems was the
fertilising perfume, the powerful quintessence of life slowly
elaborated in the depths of the graves, which intoxicated the
lovers with desire as they wandered in the solitude of the paths.
The dead, the old departed dead, longed for the union of
Miette and Silvere.

They were never afraid, The sympathy which they felt
hovering around them thrilled them and made them love the
invisible beings whose soft touch they often imagined they
could feel, like a gentle flapping of wings. Sometimes they were
saddened by a sweet melancholy, and could not understand
what the dead desired of them. They continued to enjoy their
innocent love, in the midst of this flood of sap, in this abandoned
cemetery, where the rich earth teemed with life, and imperiously
demanded their union. The buzzing voices which rang in their
ears, the sudden flushes of heat which sent the blood flying to
their faces, left them in doubt of their meaning. There Avere
days when the clamour of the dead became so loud, that Miette,
restless, languishing, half reclining on the tombstone, looked
at Silvere with her swimming eyes, as if to say, " What do they
want ? Why do they breathe such a fever into my veins ? "
And Silvere, weary and enervated, dared not reply, dared not
repeat the burning words which he thought he heard in the air,
the mad advice which the tall weeds were giving him, the
supplications of the entire alley, of the half-closed tombs
burning to serve as a nuptial couch for the love of these two
young people.

They often questioned each other about the remains which
thev discovered, Miette, ^fter a woman's fashion, was addicted

THE FORTrXE OF THE EOUGONS. 213

to lugubrious subjects. For each new discovery she had
suppositions without end. If the bone was small, she spoke of
a beautiful young- girl a prey to consumption, or carried off by
fever on the eve of her marriage ; if the bone was large, she
thought of some big old man, a soldier or a judge, some one
who had inspired terror. The tombstone, especially, engaged
their attention for a long time. One fine moonlight night
Miette had distinguished, on one of the faces, some half-
obliterated characters. She made Silvere scrape away the moss
with his knife. Then they read the mutilated inscription :
^^ Here Ueth . . . Marie . . . died . . ." And
Miette, finding her name on the stone, was quite terror-stricken.
Silvere called her a "great baby," but she could not restrain
her tears. She had received, she said, a stab in the heart, she
would soon die, and this stone was meant for her. The young
man himself felt alarmed. However, he succeeded in shamins:
the child out of these thoughts. What ! she so courageous, to
dream about such trifles ! They ended by laughing. Then
they avoided speaking of it again. But in melancholy
moments, when the cloudy sky saddened the alley, Miette could
not help thinking of that dead one, that unknown Marie, whose
tomb had so long facilitated their meetings.

The poor girl's bones were perhaps still lying there. One
evening she had a strange whim, and asked Silvere to turn
the stone up to see what was under. He refused as though it
were a sacrilege, and this refusal strengthened Miette's fancies
with regard to the dear phantom which bore her name. She
positively insisted that the girl had died, young as she was, at
thirteen years of age, and in the midst of her love. She felt a
deep sympathy for the stone, that stone which she climbed so
nimbly, which they had sat upon so often, frozen by death
and warmed again with their love. She added :

" You will see, this tombstone will bring us misfortune. If
you were to die, I should come and die here, and I should like
to have this stone rolled on to my bod3\"

Silvere, choking with emotion, scolded her for thinking of
such mournful things.

Thus, for nearly two years, they courted in the narrow alley
and in the open country. Equally through the frozen rains of
December and the burning solicitations of July, their loving
intimacy preserved itself free of all touch of what was shameful
or ignoble, exhaling all the sweet charm of some old Greek

0

214 THE FOETUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

love-tale, and retaining all its pristine purity, while their bodies
still throbbed and thrilled with an instinctive desire, whose
meaning they were too innocent to understand. In vain did
the long- departed dead whisper in their ears. They carried
nothing away with them from the old cemetery but a chastened
melancholy, a vague presentiment of a short life. A voice
seemed to whisper to them that they would depart while their
love was still virginal, and ere the marriage day should give them
wholly to each other. It was there, on the tombstone and
among the bones that lay hidden beneath the rank grass, that
they had inhaled that longing for death, that eager desire to
sleep together in the earth, that set them stammering and sigh-
ing by the side of the Orcheres road, on that December night,
t- while the two bells rang out to each other their dialogue of
mournful warnings.

Miette was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silvere's
chest while he mused upon their past meetings, upon those
joyful years of unbroken happiness. At daybreak the girl
awoke. The valley spread out clear before them under the
bright sky. The sun was still behind the hills, while a stream
of crystal light, limpid and cold as spring-water, flowed from
the pale horizon. In the distance, the Viorne, like a white
satin ribbon, disappeared among the red and yellow lands. ^ It
was a boundless vista, with grey seas of olive-trees and vine-
yards that looked like enormous pieces of striped cloth. The
whole country was magnified by the clearness of the atmo-
sphere and the stillness of the cold. The wind, which blew in
short gusts, had chilled the children's faces. They got up
quickly, cheered and gladdened at the sight of the clear morning.
Their melancholy forebodings had vanished with the darkness,
and they gazed with delight at the immense expanse of the
plain, while they listened to the tolling of the two bells that
now seemed to be joyfully ringing in the dawn of a holiday.

" Ah ! I've had a good sleep ! " Miette cried. " I dreamt
you were kissing me. Tell me now, did you kiss me ? "

" It's very possible," Silvere replied laughing. " I was
not very warm. It is bitterly cold."

<' I only feel cold in the feet," Miette rejoined.

"Well! let us have a run," said Silvere. "We have still
two good leagues to go. You will get warm."

They descended the hill and ran until they reached the high
road. When they were below they raised their heads as if to

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 215

bid adieu to that rock on which they had wept while their
kisses burned their lips. But they never again spoke of that
ardent embrace which had thrilled their love with a new,
though scarcely intelligible desire, to which they had not dared
to give expression. Under the pretext of being able to walk
more quickly they did not even take each other's arm.
Miette walked along merrily, feeling a slight confusion when
they looked at each other, without knowing why. The day
was breaking round them. The young man, who had sometimes
been sent to Orcheresby his master, knew all the shortest cuts.
They walked for more than two leagues, along winding
valleys and by the side of interminable hedges and walls.
Miette accused Silvere of having taken her the wrong way.
Often, for a quarter of an hour together, they lost all sight of
the country, and could see nothing but long rows of almond-
trees above the walls and hedges, whose delicate branches
stood out in relief against the pale sky.

Suddenly they emerged just in front of Orcheres. Loud
cries of joy and shouts from the mob, sounding clear in the
limpid air, reached their ears. The insurrectionary band was
just entering the town. Miette and Silvere went in with the
stragglers. Never had they seen such enthusiasm. To judge
from the streets, one would have thought it was a procession
day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery to
honour the passage of the Canopy. They welcomed the
insurgents as though they were deliverers. The men embraced
them, while the women brought them food. Old men were to
be seen weeping at the doors. A purely Southern mirth this,
pouring itself out in a clamorous fashion, singing, dancing and
gesticulating. As Miette passed along she was carried away
by an immense crowd executing a farandole * on the Grand'
Place. Silvere followed her. His thoughts of death, of dis-
couragement were far away at this moment. He wanted to
fight, to sell his life dearly at least. The thoughts of the
struggle intoxicated him afresh. He dreamed of victory, of a
happy existence with Miette, in the peacefulness of the univer-
sal Eepublic.

This fraternal reception by the inhabitants of Orcheres,
completed the joy of the insurgents. They spent the day

* The Farandole is a kind of dance in vogue among the peasants of
Provence. — Translator.

216 THE FORTUNE OF TEE EOUGONS.

radiant with confidence and boundless hope. The prisoners,
Commander Sicardot, Gar^onnet, Peirotte and the others, who
had been shut up in one of the rooms at the mayor's, the
windows of which looked out upon the Grand' Place, watched
these faramJoIes and enthusiastic outbursts with surprise and
dismay.
y *' The villains ! " muttered the commander, leaning- upon a
■' window-bar, as though he were bending over the velvet-covered
balustrade of a box at the theatre ; " and to think that there
isn't a battery or two to make a clean sweep of all this rabble ! "

Then he perceived Miette, and addressing himself to Monsieur
Gar^onnet, he added :

. "Do you see, sir, that big girl in red over there? It's a
disgrace. They've brought their mistresses with them. ]f
this continues much longer we shall see some fine goings-on."

Monsieur Gar9onuet shook his head, saying something about
*' passions unloosed," and " the most evil days of our history."
Monsieur Peirotte, as white as a sheet, remained silent ; he only
opened his lips once, to say to Sicardot, who continued to
rail bitterly :

" Not so loud, sir ! you will get us all massacred."

As a matter of fact, the insurgents treated these gentlemen
with the greatest kindness. They even had an excellent dinner
provided for them in the evening. Such attentions, however,
were terrifying to quakers like the receiver of taxes; the insur-
gents would not treat them so well unless they wished to make
them fat and tender for the day when they would devour them.

At dusk, Silvere came face to face with his cousin Pascal,
the doctor. The surgeon had followed the band on foot, chatting
with the workmen, who held him in the greatest respect. At
first he had striven to dissuade them from the struggle ; then he
seemed to be convinced by their arguments, and said to them
with his kindly, indifferent smile :

" Perhaps you are right, my friends ; fight if you like, I am
here to patch up your arms and legs."

In the morning he started off quietly to gather pebbles and
plants along the high road. He regretted that he had not
brought his geologist's hammer and botanical wallet with him.
His pockets were now so full of stones that they were almost
bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered forth from his
surgeon's case which he carried under his arm.

" Hullo ! you here, my boy ? " he cried as he noticed

THE FOKTUNE OP THE ROUGONS. 217

Silvere. " I thought I ^Yas the onl}^ member of the family
here."

He pronounced the last words with some irony, with a sly
hit at the intrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine. Silvere
was very glad to meet his cousin ; the doctor was the only one
of the Rougons who shook hands with him in the street, and
he showed a sincere friendship for him. Seeing him, there-
fore, still covered with dust from the roads, the young man
thought he was gained over to the republican cause and was
very delighted. He talked to him of the people's rights, of
their holy cause, of their assured triumph, with a youthful
magniloquence. Pascal smiled as he listened to him, he watched
his gestures, the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as
if he were studying a subject, or analysing an enthusiasm, to
ascertain what was at the bottom of this ingenuous fever.

" How you run on ! how you run on ! Ah ! you are a true
grandson of your grandmother ! "

And, in a whisper, he added, with the tone of a chemist
taking notes :

" H^'steria or enthusiasm, disgraceful madness or sublime
madness. Always those terrible nerves ! "

Then he added aloud, completing his reflections : " The family
is now complete. It will have a hero."

Silvere did not hear him. He was still talking of his dear
Republic. Miette had stopped a short distance off ; she was
still wrapped in her large red pelisse; she had kept close to
Silvere, and they had traversed the town arm-in-arm. This
tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal ; he interrupted his cousin
suddenly and asked him :

" Who is this child with you ? "

" She is my wife," Silvere gravely replied.

The doctor opened his ej^es wide. He did not understand.
He was very shy with women, and raised his hat to Miette
as he went away.

The nigbt was an anxious one. A foreboding of misfortune
swept over the insurgents. The enthusiasm and confidence of
the previous evening seemed to die away in the darkness. In
the morning there were gloomy faces, sad looks, and a long
discouraging silence. Terrifying rumours were circulating;
the bad news, which the leaders had managed to conceal since
the previous evening, had now spread abroad without a word
from anybody, blown by that invisible mouth which, with a

218 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

single breath, throws a mob into a panic. Some reports
declared that Paris was subdued, that the country had sub-
mitted ; and it was added that a large band of troops had left
Marseilles under the command of Colonel Masson and Monsieur
de Bleriot, the prefect of the department, and were advancing
by forced marches to disperse the insurrectionary bands.
This news came like a thunderbolt, and speedily filled them
with rage and despair. These men, burning with patriotic
fever on the previous evening, now shuddered beneath the icy
cold of a submissive and shamefully prostrate France. They
alone, then, had had the courage of their duty \ They were
now to be left to perish amidst the general panic and death-
like silence of the country ; they had become mere rebels, who
would be hunted down like wild beasts ; they, who had dreamed
of a great war, of a people in revolt, of the glorious conquest
of right ! So, miserably baffled and betrayed, this handful of
men began to bewail their dead faith and their vanished dreams
of justice. There were some who, while taunting France with
her cowardice, threw away their arms, went and sat down
on the roadside, and declared that there they would await
the bullets of the troops and show how republicans could
die.

Although these men had now nothing but death or exile
before them, there were very few desertions. A wonderful
solidarity kept them together. Their indignation turned
chiefly against the leaders, who were really incapable.
Irreparable mistakes had been comnaitted; and now the
insurgents, without order or discipline, barely protected
by a few sentinels, and under the command of irresolute men,
found themselves at the mercy of the first soldiers that might
arrive.

They spent two more days at Orcheres, Tuesday and
Wednesday, losing time and aggravating the situation. The
general, the man with the sabre, whom Silvere had pointed
out to Miette on the Plassans road, vacillated and hesitated
under the terrible responsibility that weighed upon him. On
Thursday he came to the conclusion that the position of
Orcheres was a decidedly dangerous one. Towards one
o'clock he gave the order to march, and led his little army to
the heights of Sainte-Roure. That was, indeed, an impreg-
nable position for any one who knew how to defend it. The
bouses of Sainte-Roure are built in tiers along the side of a

^HE FOPiTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 219

hill ; behind the town all approach is shut off by enormous
boulders of rock, so that this kind of citadel can only
be reached by the Nores plain, which stretches at the foot of the
plateau. An esplanade, converted into a public promenade
planted with magnificent elms, overlooks the plain. It was
on this esplanade that the insurgents encamped. The hostages
were imprisoned in the Hotel de la Mule-Blanche, situated in
the middle of the promenade. The night passed away
heavy and black. The insurgents spoke of treachery. As
soon' as it was morning, the man with the sabre, who had
neglected to take the simplest precautions, reviewed the troops.
The contingents were drawn up in line with their backs turned
to the plain. They presented a wonderful mixture of costume,
brown jackets, dark greatcoats, and blue blouses encircled
with red sashes ; their arms were an equally odd collection :
there were newly sharpened scythes, large navvies' spades and
burnished tarrels of sportsmen's guns glittering in the bright
sunshine. Just as the improvised general was riding past the
little army, a sentinel, who had been forgotten in an olive-
plantation, ran up gesticulating and shouting :

" The soldiers ! the soldiers ! "

This caused an indescribable commotion. At first, they
thought it was a false alarm. The insurgents, forgetting all
discipline, rushed forward, running to the end of the esplanade
in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and as
the dark lines of the troops appeared, marching in perfect order
with the long glitter of bayonets, behind the greyish curtain
of olive trees, there was a hasty and confused retreat which
spread a trembling panic throughout the length and breadth of
the plateau.

In the meantime, the contingents of La Palud and Saint-
Martin- de-Vaulx had formed in line again in the middle of the
promenade, where they presented a bold, determined front.
A wood-cutter, who was a head taller than any of his com-
panions, shouted, as he waved his red neckerchief: " To arms,
Chavanoz, Graille, Poujols, Saint-Eutrope I to arms, Les
Tulettes ! to arms, Plassans ! "

Crowds streamed across the esplanade. The man with the
sabre, surrounded by the men from Faverolles, marched out
with several of the country contingents, Yernoux, Corbiere, Mar-
sanne, Pruinas, to turn the enemy and attack him on the flank.
Other contingents from Yalqueyras, Nazere, Castel-le-Vieux,

220 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

Koches-Noires, and Murdaran, dashed to the left, scattering
themselves in skirmishing parties over the Nores plain.

While the promenade was becoming empty, the men of the
towns and villages which the wood-cutter had called to his
aid, mustered together, forming a dark mass under the elms;
they were grouped in an irregular manner, contrary to all the
rules of strategy, rolled there like a rock, as it were, to bar
the way or die. Plassans stood in the middle of this heroic
battalion. Amid the grey tint of the blouses and jackets, and
the bluish glitter of the arms, the pelisse of Miette, who was
holding the banner with both hands, looked like a large red spot,
like a fresh bleeding wound.

Suddenly all was silent. The pale face of Monsieur Peirotte
appeared at one of the windows of the Hotel de la Mule-Blanche.
He began to speak, gesticulating with his hands.

" Go in, close the shutters," the insurgents shouted
furiously; " you'll get yourself killed."

The shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was now
heard save the regular step of the soldiers who were drawing
near.

A minute, that seemed an age, went by. The troops had
disappeared, hidden by an undulation of the ground ; but the
insurgents soon perceived towards the plain the bayonets
shooting up, one after another, level with the ground, like a
field of steel-eared corn under the rising sun. At that
moment Silvere, burning with feverish agitation, fancied
he saw passing before him the image of the gendarme
whose blood had stained his hands ; he knew, from the
accounts of his companions, that Eengade was not dead,
that he had only lost an eye ; and he clearly distinguished
him, with his empty socket bleeding horribly. The keen
recollection of this man, to whom he had given no thought
since his departure from Plassans, was terrible to him. He
was afraid his fear might get the better of him, and he tightened
his grasp of his carbine, while his eyes were clouded by a
mist, as he felt a longing to discharge his gun and fire at
the image of this one-eyed man. The bayonets were still
slowly ascending.

When the heads of the soldiers appeared at the edge of the
esplanade, Silvere instinctively turned to Miette. She was there,
bolt upright with her rosy cheeks, wrapped in the folds of
the red banner ; she was standing on tip-toe in order to see the

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. S21

ttoops; a nervous expectation made her nostrils quiver, and
revealed her white teeth gleaming through her red lips.
Silvere smiled at her. He had scarcely turned his head when
a fusillade burst out. The soldiers, who were still only visible
from their shoulders upwards, had just fired their first
volley. It seemed as though an immense gust of wind was
passing over his head, while a shower of leaves, lopped off by
the balls, fell from the elms. A sharp sound, like the snapping
of a dead branch, made him look to his right. He saw the
big woodcutter on the ground, he who was a head taller
than the others, with a little black hole in the middle of his
forehead. Thereupon he discharged his rifle straight before
him, without taking aim, reloaded it and fired again like a
madman or a wild beast, thinking of nothing, in haste only to
kill. He could not even distinguish the soldiers now ; clouds
of smoke were floating under the elms, resembling strips of
grey muslin. The leaves continued to rain upon the insur-
gents ; the troops were firing too high. Ever}'' now and then,
through the fierce crackling of the fusillade, the young man
heard a sigh or a dull rattle, and a rush was made among the
band as if to make room for some poor wretch clutching hold
of his neighbours as he fell. The firing lasted for ten minutes.

Between two volleys some one exclaimed in a voice of
terror : " Every man for himself ! " This roused shouts and
murmurs of rage, and cries of " The cowards ! Oh ! the cow-
ards ! " Sinister rumours were circulating : the general had
fled ; the cavalry were sabring the skirmishers in the Nores
plain. The firing still continued, the guns going off irregularly,
piercing the clouds of smoke with sudden bursts of flame. A
gruff voice was protesting that they must die there. But a
wild voice, a voice of terror, shouted louder : " Every man
for himself ! Every man for himself ! " Some men took to
flight, throwing down their weapons, leaping over the dead.
Others closed the ranks. There were only about ten insur-
gents left. Two more took to flight, and of the remaining
eight three were killed at one discharge.

The two children remained there mechanically, understand-
ing nothing of what was happening. As the battalion dimin-
ished in numbers, Miette raised the banner still higher in the
air ; she held it in front of her with clenched fists like a huge
taper. It was completely riddled by bullets. AVhen Silvere
had no more cartridges in his pocket, he ceased firing, and

222 THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS.

gazed at Lis carbine with a stupefied air. It was then that a
shadow passed over his face, as though a colossal bird, flapping
its wings, had grazed his forehead. Eaising his eyes he saw
the banner fall from Miette's grasp. The child, her hands
clasped to her breast, her head thrown back, and wearing an
expression of excruciating suffering, reeled and staggered.
She did not utter a single cry, and sank back on the red banner.

" Get up ; come quickly," Silvere said, in despair, as he held
out his hand to her.

But she lay on the ground without uttering a word, her
eyes wide open. He understood, and knelt down beside her.

" You are wounded, tell me ? Where are you wounded ? "

She did not utter a word ; she was choking as she gazed at
him out of her large eyes, agitated and trembling. Then he
pulled awa}^ her hands.

" It's there, isn't it ? it's there."

And he tore open her bodice, and laid bare her bosom. He
searched, but saw nothing. His eyes were brimming with
tears. At last he perceived a small rose-coloured hole under
the left breast; a single drop of blood spotted the wound.

"It's nothing," he whispered; "I'll go and find Pascal,
he'll put you all right again. If you could just get up. Can't
you move ? " ■

The soldiers were not firing now ; they had dashed to the
left in pursuit of the contingents led away by the man with the
sabre. In the esplanade there was no one but Silvere kneeling
beside Miette's body. "With the stubbornness of despair,
he had taken her in his arms. He wanted to set her on her
feet, but it caused the gu'l such pain that he laid her down again,
and implored her :

" Speak to me, pray. Why don't you say something to
me?"

She could not, she shook her hand with a gentle, slow move-
ment, to say that it was not her fault. Her pressed lips were
already contracting' beneath the finger of death. Her hair was
falling loosely about her, and her head was wrapped in the blood-
stained folds of the banner ; her eyes alone still seemed to live,
those black eyes of hers, which glittered in her pale white face.
Silvere sobbed. The glance of those big sorrowful e^'es filled
him with pain. He read in them one long last regret for life.
Miette was telling him that she was going away alone, and
before their marriage day ; that she was leaving him ere she

THE DEATH OF MIETTE.

p. 222.

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 223

bad become his wife. She was telling him, too, that it was he
who had willed it should be so, that he should have loved her
as other lovers love their sweethearts. In the hour of her
agon}^, in that stern conflict between death and her vigorous
nature, she was bewailing her virginity. Silvere, as he bent ."
over iier, understood the bitter sobbing of her hot-blooded t
flesh. He heard the far-away solicitations of the mouldering >
bones, he recalled those caresses in the darkness of the
night which had burned their lips by the roadside : she had
hung round his neck, and had ^'earned for his love, but he had
not understood,^ and now he was letting her go from him in all
her maidenhood, sick at heart that she had never sipped at the
cup of life's pleasures. Bitterly grieved at the thought that
she should carry away with her no recollection of him, save as a «'
playfellow, he kissed her virgin bosom, that pure, chaste breast ''
which he had just stripped bare. His tears fell wet upon her
lips. He pressed his sobbing mouth to the girl's flesh. These
kisses of love lighted Miette's eyes with a last gleam of jo3\
They loved each other, and death was the conclusion of theh^
love-story.

But he could not believe she was dying. He said :

" No, you will see it will turn out to be only a trifle. Don't
speak if it hurts you. Wait, I will raise your head and then
will warm you ; your hands are quite frozen."

The fusillade recommenced on the left, in the olive planta-
tions. The dull sound of the galloping cavalry rose from the
plain. At times there were loud cries, as of men being
slaughtered. Thick clouds of smoke hung about the elms in
the esplanade. But Silvere no longer heard or saw anj'thing.
Pascal, who came running down in the direction of the plain,
beheld him stretched out on the ground, and hastened towards
him, thinking he was wounded. As soon as the young man
saw him, he clutched hold of him and pointed to Miette.

" Look," he said, " she's wounded, there, under the breast.
Ah ! how good of you to come ; you will save her.'^

Just then, the dying girl was shaken with a slight convul-
sion. A mournful shadow passed over her face, and a faint
sigh escaped from her contracted lips as they parted. Her
eyes, still wide open, gazed fixedly at the young man.

Pascal, who had stooped down, said in a hushed voice as he
rose :

*• She is dead."

254 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOtJGONS.

Dead ! Silvcre reeled at the sound of the word. He had
resumed his kneeling posture, but now fell back, as though
thrown down by Miette's last faint sigh.

"Dead! dead!" he repeated, " it is not true, she is look-
ing at me. See how she is looking at me."

He seized the doctor by his coat, entreating him not to go
away, assuring him that he was mistaken, that she was not
dead, that he could save her if he would. Pascal resisted
gentl}^, saying in his kindly voice :

" I can do nothing for her, others are waiting for me. Let
go, my child ; she is quite dead."

He released his hold and fell back. Dead ! dead ! still that
word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain. When he was
alone he crept up close to the corpse. Miette still seemed
to be looking at him. He threw himself upon her, laid his
head upon her bare breast, and bathed her flesh with his tears.
He was beside himself with grief. He pressed his lips wildly
to her bosom, and breathed out all his passion, all his soul upon
her in one long kiss, as though he hoped it might bring her to
life again. But the girl was turning cold under his caresses.
He felt her body lying lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch.
He was seized with terror, and, with panic-stricken face and
hands hanging listlessly by his side, he crouched down, and
remained there in a state of stupor, as he repeated constantly :

'' She is dead, yet she is looking at me ; she does not close
her eyes, she sees me still."

He seemed to derive some consolation from this thought,
and remained there perfectly still. He exchanged one long look
with Miette, and seemed still to read in those eyes, deepened by
death, the girl's last regrets as she bewailed her virgiuit}^

In tlie meantime, the cavalry were still sabring the fugitives
over the Nores plain ; the cries of the wounded and the galloping
of the horses were dying away in the distance, like music wafted
from afar through the clear air. Silvere was no longer con-
scious of the fighting, and he did not see his cousin as he
mounted up the slope again and crossed the promenade. As he
passed along, Pascal picked up Macquart's carbine which Silvere
had thrown down ; he knew it, as he had seen it hanging over
aunt Di.de's chimney-piece and thought he might as well save it
from the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hotel
de la Mule-Blanche inn, where a large number of the wounded
had been taken, when a band of insurgents, hunted down by the

A

THE FOETUNE OF TKE ROUGONS. 225

soldiers like a troop of wild beasts, rushed into the esplanade.
The man with the sabre had fled ; it was the last of the contin-
gents from the country who were being exterminated. A fearful
slaughter took place. In vain did Colonel Masson and the
prefect, Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, order a retreat.
The infuriated soldiers continued to fire upon the mass, and to
nail the fugitives to the walls with their bayonets. When they
had no more enemies before them, they riddled the fac^ade of
the Mule-Blanche with balls. The shutters flew. into splinters;
a window left half-open was torn out, with a loud smash of
broken glass. Pitiful voices were crying out from within :
*' The prisoners ! the prisoners ! " But the troops did not
hear; they continued firing. Commander Sicardot, growing
exasperated, appeared at the door and waved his arms as he
endeavoured to speak Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes,
with his slim body and scared face, stood by his side. Another
volley was fired, and Monsieur Peirotte fell face foremost,
with a heavy thud, to the ground.

Silvere and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvere
had remained by the corpse, through all the fusillade and the
agonising cries, without even turning his head. He was
conscious only of some men around him, and, seized with a
feeling of shame, he drew the red banner over Miette's naked
breast. Then their eyes still continued to gaze at each other.

The conflict, however, was now at an end. The death of the
receiver of taxes had satiated the soldiers. The men ran about,
scouring every corner of the esplanade, to prevent the escape
of a single insurgent. A gendarme who perceived Silvere
under the trees, ran up to him, and seeing it was a lad he had
to deal with :

'* What are you doing there, you rascal ? " he asked him.

Silvere, his eyes still fixed on those of Miette, made no
reply.

"Ah! the bandit, his hands are black with powder," the
man exclaimed as he stooped down. *' Come, get up, you
scoundrel ! You know what 3'Ou've got to expect."

But Silvere only smiled vaguely and did not attempt to
move, whereupon the man noticed that the corpse that lay
wrapped round with the banner was that of a woman.

" A fine girl ! what a pity ! " he muttered. " Your mistress,
eh ? you rascal ! "

Then he added, with his rough gendarme's laugh :

226 THE TOUTUNE OY THE ROUGONS.

<' Come, get up ! — She's dead now; so you can't sleep with
her any more."

He made a violent grab at Silvere, and setting him on his
feet led him away like a dog dragged along by its leg.
Silvere submitted without a word, and allowed himself to be
hauled along as quietly as a child. He turned round to give
another glance at Miette. He was sorely grieved to leave her
alone under the trees. He looked at her from afar, for the last
time. She was still there in all her purity, wrapped in the red
banner, with her head slightly bent forward and her big eyes
turned towards heaven.

227

CHAPTER VI.

ROUGOK, at about five o'clock in the morning", at last ventured
to leave his mother's house. The old woman had gone to
Bleep on a chair. He crept stealthily to the end of the
Impasse Saint-Mittre. There was not a sound, not a
shadow. He pushed on as far as the Porte de Rome. The
gates were lying wide open in the darkness that enveloped the
slumbering town. Plassans was sleeping as sound as a top,
quite unconscious, apparently, of the risk it was running in
allowing the gates to remain unsecured. It seemed like a city
of the dead. Rougon, taking courage, made his way into the
Rue de Nice. He scanned at a distance the corners of the
lanes ; he trembled at every door, fearing lest he should see a
band of insurgents rush out upon him. But he reached the
Cours Sauvaire without any mishap. The insurgents seemed
to have vanished in the darkness like a nightmare.

Pierre then stood still a moment on the deserted pavement,
iieaving a deep sigh of relief and triumph. Those repub-
lican rascals had indeed abandoned Plassans to him. The town
belonged to him now ; it was as sound asleep as a drunkard :
there it lay, dark and tranquil, silent and confident, and he had
only to stretch out his hand to take possession of it. This brief
halt, this supercilious glance which he cast over the drowsy
chief town, thrilled him with an unspeakable delight. He
stood there alone in the darkness, and crossed his arms, like a
great general on the eve of a victory. He could hear nothing
in the distance but the murmur of the fountains in the pro-
menade, whose jets of water were falling into the basins with
a musical plashing.

Then he began to feel a little uneasy. What if the Empire
should have been established without his aid? What if
Sicardot, Gar^onnet, Peirotte, instead of being arrested and led
away by the insurrectionary band, had shut up the rebels in the
prison of the town ? A cold perspiration broke out over him,
and he resumed his steps again, hoping that Felicite would give

228 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

him some accurate information. He pushed on very rapidly,
and was passing" along the houses of the Rue de la Banne, when
a strang-e spectacle, which caught his eyes as he raised his head,
riveted him to the ground. One of the windows of the yellow
drawing'-room was brilliantly illuminated, and, in the glare, he
saw a dark form, which he recognised as that of his wife,
bending forward, and shaking its arms in a violent manner.
He asked himself what it could mean, but, unable to conceive
any explanation, was beginning to feel seriously alarmed when
some hard object struck the pavement at his feet. Felicite had
thrown him the key of the cart-house where he had concealed ^
a supply of muskets. This key clearly signified that he must arm
himself. He turned away again, unable to comprehend why
his wife had prevented him going upstairs, and imagining the
most horrible things.

He went straight to Roudier, whom he found dressed and
ready to march, but completely ignorant of the events of the
previous evening. Roudier lived at the extremity of the new
town, like in a desert, whither no tidings of the insur-
gents' movements had penetrated. Pierre proposed to him to
go and find Granoux, whose house was situated at one of the
corners of the Place des Recollets, and under whose windows
the insurgent contingent must have passed. The municipal
councillor's servant stood talking a long time before ad-
mitting them, and they heard the trembling voice of the poor
man, shouting from the first floor :

'' Don't open the door, Catherine ! The streets are full of
bandits."

He was in his bedroom, in the dark. When he recognised
his two faithful friends he was relieved ; but he would not let
the maid bring a lamp, fearing that the light might draw down
a bullet. He seemed to think that the town was still full of
insurgents. Lying back on an arm-chair near the window, in
his drawers, and with a silk handkerchief round his head, he
moaned :

" Ah ! my friends, if you only knew ! — I tried to go to
bed, but they were making such a disturbance ! At last I
lay down in my arm-chair here. I've seen it all, everything.
Such awful looking men ; a band of escaped convicts ! Then
they passed by again, dragging away with them the brave
Commander Sicardot, worthy Monsieur Gar^onnet, the post-
master, and others, howling the while like cannibals ! "

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 229

Rougon felt a thrill of joy. He made Granoux tell him
over again how he had seen the mayor and the others sur-
rounded by the savage scoundrels.

" I saw it all ! " the poor man cried. " I was standing be-
hind the blind. They had just seized Monsieur Peirotte, and I
heard him saying as he passed under my window : ' Gentlemen,
don't hurt me ! ' They were certainly maltreating him. It's
abominable, scandalous ! "

Roudier calmed Granoux by assuring him that the town was
free. The worthy gentleman began to feel quite a glow of
martial ardour when Pierre informed him that he came to find
him for the purpose of saving Plassans. The three saviours
took counsel together. They each resolved to go and rouse
their friends, and appoint a meeting for them in the cart-shed,
the secret arsenal of the reactionary party. Rougon bethought
himself constantly of Felicite's wild gestures, which seemed
to betoken danger somewhere. Granoux, assuredly the most
foolish of the three, was the first to suggest that there must
be some republicans still in the town. This was a fiash of
light, and Rougon, with a feeling of conviction, said to him-
self:

" There are some of Macquart's lot down there."

At the end of an hour they met again in the cart-shed,
which was situated in a very lonely spot. They had glided
stealthily on from door to door, knocking and ringing as
quietly as possible, and picking up all the men they could.
But they only succeeded in collecting about forty, who
arrived there one after the other, creeping along in the dark,
without neckcloths, and with the pale and drowsy counte-
nances of men who had been violently startled from their
sleep. The cart-shed, let to a cooper, was encumbered with
old hoops and broken casks, with which every corner was
full. The guns were stored in the middle, in three long boxes.
A taper, stuck on a piece of wood, illumined this strange scene
with the glimmer of a flickering night-lamp. When Rougon
had taken off the covers of the three boxes, the spectacle be-
came one of weird grotesqueness. Above the guns, whose
barrels §hone with a bluish, phosphorescent glitter, necks were
stretched out, heads were bent over with a sort of secret fear,
while the yellow glimmer of the taper cast shadows of im-
mense noses, and locks of stiffened hair upon the walls.

In the meantime, the reactionary band counted their num-

230 THE FOKTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

bers, the smallness of which filled them with hesitation. They
were only thirty-nine, and it would be certain death for
them. A father of a family spoke of his children ; others,
without troubling themselves about excuses, turned towards
the door. Then two fresh conspirators arrived, who lived in
the neighbourhood of the town-hall, and knew for certain that
there were not more than about twenty republicans still at the
mayor's. They deliberated afresh. Forty-one against twenty
seemed practicable conditions. The arms were served out
amid a little trembling and perturbation. Kougon was the
person who took them out of the boxes, and each one, as he
received his gun, the barrel of which on that December night
was icy cold, felt struck with a chilling shock that seemed to
freeze him to his very bones. The shadows on the walls looked
like the clumsy shapes of bewildered conscripts stretching out
their ten fingers. Pierre closed the boxes with regret, he left
there a hundred and nine guns which he would willingly have
distributed ; he then proceeded to divide the cartridges. There
were two large barrels in the furthest corner of the cart-shed full
to the brim, sufficient to defend Plassans against an army. And
as this corner was dark, one of the gentlemen brought the taper,
whereupon another of the conspirators — a burly pork-butcher,
with immense fists — got angry, saying it was very imprudent to
take a light so near. They were all strongly of the same
opinion. The cartridges were distributed in the dark. They
filled their pockets with them, till they nearly burst. Then,
when they were ready, and had loaded their guns with
endless precautions, they stood still for a moment, looking at
each other with lowering eyes, and exchanged glances in
which cowardly ferocity was mingled with an expression of
stupidity.

In the streets, they stepped along close to the houses,
silently and in single file, like savages on the war-path.
Rougon had insisted upon having the honour of marching at
the head ; the time had come when he must be content to run
some risk, if he wanted to see his schemes successful. Drops
of perspiration poured down his forehead in spite of the cold, but
he preserved a very martial bearing. Roudier and Granoux
came immediately behind him. Twice the column stopped
short ; they fancied they had heard the distant sound of fight-
ing ; but it was only the little brass shaving-dishes suspended
by little chains, which are used as signs by the barbers in the

THE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS. 231

South, which were gently shaking- to and fro in the breeze.
After each halt, the saviours of Plassans continued their
stealthy march in the dark, with their nervous assump-
tion of valour. In this manner they reached the town-hall.
There they formed a group round Rougon, and took counsel
once more. In the black facade of the building- in front of them,
only one window was lighted. It was nearly seven o'clock,
and the dawn was approaching.

After a good ten minutes' discussion, it was decided to ad-
vance as far as the door, to try and find out what might be the
meaning' of this disquieting darkness and silence. The door
was half open. One of the conspirators put his head in and
quickly withdrew it, announcing that there was a man under
the porch, sitting against the wall fast asleep, with a gun be-
tween his legs. Eougon, seeing a chance of commencing with
a deed of valour, entered first, and, seizing the man, held him
down while Roudier gagged him. This first triumph, gained
in silence, singularly emboldened the little troop, who had
dreamed of a murderous fusillade. Rougon made imperious
signs to restrain the soldiers from indulging in a too boisterous
mirth.

They continued their advance on tip-toe. Then on the left,
in the police guard-room which was situated there, they saw
some fifteen men lying on a camp-bed snoring, in the dim
glimmer of a lantern hung up on the wall. Rougon, who was
decidedly becoming a great general, left half of his men in
front of the guard-room with orders not to rouse the sleepers,-
but to watch them and make them prisoners if they stirred.
He was uneasy, however, about the window in which
they had seen a light from the Place. He smelt Macquart in
the business, and, as he felt that he would first have to make
prisoners of those who were keeping guard upstairs, he
was not sorry to be able to operate by surprise before the noise
of a conflict should lead them to barricade themselves. He
went up quietl}^, followed by the twenty heroes whom he still
had at his disposal. Roudier commanded the detachment
remaining in the courtyard.

Macquart, in fact, was comfortably installed upstairs in the
mayor's ofiice, sitting in an arm-chair with his elbows on the
writing-table. After the departure of the insurgents, with the
characteristic confidence of a man of coarse intellect absorbed
by his one fixed idea and bent upon his own triumph, he

232 THE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

imagined that Plassans was at his complete disposal, and that
he was going to act there like a conqueror. In his opinion
that body of three thousand men who had just passed through
Plassans was an invincible army, whose proximity alone would
suffice to keep the citizens humble and docile in his hands.
The insurgents had shut the gendarmes up in their barracks,
the National Guard was already dismembered, the nobility
must be quaking with terror, the retired citizens of the new
town had certainly never handled a gun in their lives. More-
over, there were no arms any more than soldiers. He did not
even take the precaution to have the gates shut. His men
carried their confidence still further by falling asleep, while he
calmly awaited the day w^hich he thought would rallj^ round
him all the republicans in the country.

He was already meditating important revolutionary mea-
sures : the nomination of a Commune of which he would be the
chief, the imprisonment of all bad patriots, and particularly of
those persons who had incurred his displeasure. The thought
of the baffled Rougons, of the deserted drawing-room, of all
that clique asking pardon, thrilled him with a sweet pleasure.
In order to while away the time he had resolved to issue a pro-
clamation to the inhabitants of Plassans. Four of them had
set to work to draw up this proclamation. When it was
finished Macquart, posing himself in a dignified manner in the
mayor's arm-chair, had it read to him before sending it to the
printing office of the " Independant," on whose patriotism he
reckoned. One of the writers was commencing grandiloquently :
" Inhabitants of Plassans, the hour of independence has

struck, the reign of justice has begun " when a noise

was heard at the door of the office, which was slowly pushed
open.

*' Is it you, Cassoute?" Macquart asked, interrupting the
reading.

Nobody answered; the door continued to open.

" Come in, do ! " he continued, impatiently. "■ Is my
brigand of a brother at home ?"

Then, suddenly, the two leaves of the door were pushed
violently back and slammed against the walls, and a crowd of
armed men, in the midst of whom marched Rougon, with his
face very red and his eyes starting out of their sockets,
swarmed into the office, brandishing their guns like sticks.

" Ah ! the blackguards, they're armed ! " Macquart shouted,

THE rOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 233

He was about to seize a pair of pistols which were lying- on
the writing- table, when five men caught hold of him by the
throat and held him down. The four authors of the proclama-
tion struggled for an instant. There was a good deal of
scuffling and heavy stamping, and noise of persons falling.
The combatants were very much hampered by their guns,
which they would not lay aside, although they were of no use
to them. In the struggle, Rougon's gun, which an insurgent
had tried to wrest from him, went off of itself with a frightful
explosion, filling the room with smoke ; the ball shattered a
magnificent mirror that reached from the mantelpiece to the
ceiling, and was reputed to be one of the finest mirrors in the
town. This shot, fired no one knew why, deafened everybody,
and put an end to the battle.

Then, while the gentlemen were panting and puffing, three
reports were heard out in the courtyard. Granoux rushed
to one of the windows of the room. Their faces lengthened
uneasily as they anxiously leaned out, and waited, feeling
no eagerness to recommence a fresh struggle with the men in
the guard-room, whom they had forgotten in the midst of
their triumph. But Roudier's voice cried out that all was
right. Granoux shut the window again, beaming with joy.
The fact of the matter was, Rougon's shot had roused the
sleepers, who had surrendered, seeing that resistance was
impossible. In their blind haste to get the business over,
however, three of Roudier's men had discharged their fire-arms
in the air, as a sort of answer to the report above, without
knowing quite why they did so. It frequently happens that
guns go off of their own accord, when in the hands of cowards.

In the meantime, Rougon ordered Macquart's hands to be
bound with the loops of the large green curtains in the room.
The latter broke out into scornful jeers, and was quite mad
with rage.

" All right ; go on," he muttered. " This evening or to-
morrow, when the others return, we'll settle accounts ! "

This allusion to the insurrectionary band sent a shudder to
the very marrow of the victors ; Rougon, particularly, felt an
uncomfortable choking sensation. His brother, who was exas-
perated at having been surprised like a child by these terrified
citizens, whom, old soldier that he was, he looked upon as
good-for-nothing civilians, glared at him, and defied him with
eyes that glistened with hatred.

234 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

" Ah ! I can tell some pretty stones about you, very pretty
ones ! " he continued, without removing his eyes from him.
*' Just send me before the Court of Assizes, so that I can tell
the judges a few tales that will make them laugh."

Rougon turned pale. He was terribly afraid lest Macquart
should blab, and ruin him in the esteem of the gentlemen who
had just been assisting him to save Plassans. Moreover, these
gentlemen, quite stunned by the dramatic encounter between
the two brothers, had retired to a corner of the office, seeing
that a stormy passage was about to take place. Rougon formed
a heroic resolution. He advanced towards the group and said
in a very noble tone of voice :

" We will keep this man here. When he has reflected on
his position he will be able to give us some useful information."

Then in a still more dignified voice he went on :

*' I will discharge my duty, gentlemen. I have sworn to
save the town from anarchy, and I will save it, should I even
have to be the executioner of my nearest relative."

He might have been an old Roman sacrificing his family on
the altar of his country. Granoux, deeply moved, came to
press his hand with a tearful countenance, which seemed to
say: "I understand you; you are sublime!" He did him the
kindness to take everybody away, under the pretext of con-
ducting the four prisoners into the courtyard.

When Pierre was alone with his brother, he felt all his self-
possession return to him. He resumed :

"You hardly expected me, did jom? I understand now ;
you have been laying plots against me. Miserable wretch !
see what your vice and licentiousness have brought you to ! "

Macquart shrugged his shoulders.

" Shut up," he replied; "go to the devil. You're an old
rogue. He laughs best who laughs last."

Rougon, who had formed no definite plan with regard to
him, thrust him into a dressing-room where Monsieur Garconnet
used to go sometimes to lie down. This room, lighted from
above, had no other exit but by the door. It was furnished
with a few arm-chairs, a sofa, and a marble wash-stand.
Pierre double-locked the door, after having partially unbound
his brother's hands. They could hear the latter throw himself
on the sofa, as he trolled out in a loud voice the " ^a ira ! " as
though he were trying to sing himself to sleep.

Rougon, alone at last, sat down in his turn in the mayor's

THE FOKTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 235

arm-chair. He heaved a sigh as he wiped his brow. How
hard, indeed, it was to win fortune and honours ! However,
he was nearing* the end at last. He felt the soft arm-chair
shaping itself to his pressure, and with a mechanical movement
he caressed the mahogany writing-table with his hands, seeming
to find it silky and delicate as the skin of a beautiful woman.
He strutted about, and assumed the dignified attitude which
Macquart was previously affecting as he sat listening to the
proclamation. Around him, the silence of the room seemed
full of a religious solemnity which inspired his soul with a
feeling of sacred joy. Everything, even the dust and the old
documents lying in the corners, seemed to exhale an odour
of incense, which was grateful and soothing to his dilated
nostrils. This room, with its faded hangings and atmosphere of
commonplace routine, with all the trivial worries of a third-rate
municipality, became a temple of which he was the god. He
was entering upon some sacred spot. He who, in reality, was
not fond of priests, recalled the delightful sensation of his
first communion, when he had partaken of the body of the
Saviour.

But, in his raptures, he felt a slight nervous shock at every
shout from Macquart. The words aristocrat, lamp-post, the
threats of hanghig, sounded through the door in angry bursts,
and interrupted his triumphant dream in a disagreeable manner.
Always that man ! And his dream, in which- he saw Plassans
at his feet, ended with the sudden vision of the Court of Assizes,
of the judges, of the jury and the public, listening to Macquart's
disgraceful revelations, the story of the fifty thousand francs,
and other unpleasant matters ; or else, while enjoying the
softness of Monsieur Gar^onnet's arm-chair, he saw himself
suddenly suspended to a lamp-post in the Rue de La Banne.
Who would rid him of this wretched fellow ? At last Antoine
fell asleep, and Pierre enjoyed ten good minutes' pure
ecstasy.

Roudier and Granoux canie to rouse him from this state of
beatitude. They had just returned from the prison, whither
they had taken the insurgents. Day was coming on apace, the
town would soon be awake, and it was necessary to take some
decisive step. Roudier declared that it would be best, before
doing anything else, to issue a proclamation to the inhabitants.
Pierre was, at that very moment, reading the one the insurgents
had left behind on the table.

236 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

« Why," he cried, " this will suit us admirably. There are
only just a few words to be altered."

And, in fact, a quarter of an hour sufficed for the necessary
changes, after which Granoux read out, in an earnest voice :

" Inhabitants of Plassans, the hour of resistance has struck,
the reign of order has returned "

It was decided that the proclamation should be printed at
the office of the " Gazette," and posted at all the street corners.

" Now listen," said Rougon, " we'll go home to my house ;
during that time Monsieur Granoux will assemble here the
members of the municipal council who have not been
arrested, and relate to them the terrible events of the night."

Then he added, with majesty :

"I am quite prepared to accept the responsibility of my
acts. If what I have already done appears a satisfactory
pledge of my desire for order, I am willing to place my-
self at the head of a municipal commission, until such time
as the regular authorities can be reinstated. But, that no
one may accuse me of ambitious designs, I will not re-enter
this building unless called here by the voice of my fellow-
citizens."

Granoux and Roudier exclaimed that Plassans would not
be ungrateful. Their friend had indeed saved the town. And
they recalled all that he had done for the cause of order : the
yellow drawing-room always open to the friends of authority,
his services as spokesman in the three quarters, the store of
arms which was his idea, and especially that memorable night,
that night of prudence and heroism, in which he had rendered
himself illustrious for ever. Granoux added that he was sure,
beforehand, of the admiration and recognition of the municipal
councillors. He concluded by saj^ing :

" Don't move out of your house ; I will come and fetch you
to lead you back in triumph."

Roudier added that he quite understood the tact and
modesty of their friend, and approved it. Nobody, certainly,
would think of accusing him of ambition, but they would
appreciate the delicacy which prompted him to desire no
honours but those conferred upon him by the common consent
of his fellow-citizens. That was very dignified, very noble,
quite sublime.

Under this shower of eulogies, Rougon humbly bowed his
head. He murmured, "No, no; you go too far," with the

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 237

voluptuous thrillings of exquisite pleasure. Every sentence of
the retired hosier and the old almond-merchant, who stood on
his. right and left respectively, fell sweetly on his ears; and,
lying" back in the mayor's arm-chair, bathed in the ofiScial
odour which pervaded the room, he bowed to the rig-ht
and to the left, like a ro3'al pretender whom a coup d'etat is
about to convert into an emperor.

When they were tired of belauding each other, they went
downstairs. Granoux went away to call the Municipal
Council together. Roudier told Rougon to go on in front,
saying he would rejoin him at his house, after having given
the necessary orders for guarding the mayor's. Day was
breaking; Pierre gained the Rue de la Banne, stamping his
heels in a martial manner on the still deserted pavement. He
carried his hat in his hand in spite of the bitter cold ; puffs of
pride sent all his blood into his face.

At the bottom of the stairs he found Cassoute. The navvy
had not stirred, having seen nobody enter. He sat there, on
the first step, resting his big head in his hands, gazing fixedly
in front of him, with the vacant stare and mute stubbornness
of a faithful dog.

" You were waiting for me, weren't you ? " Pierre said to
him, taking in the situation at a glance, as soon as he saw him,
*' Well ! go and tell Monsieur Macquart that I've come home.
Go and ask for him at the mayor's."

Cassoute got up and withdrew, with an awkward bow. He
was going to get himself arrested like a lamb, to the great
delight of Pierre, who laughed as he went upstairs, asking
himself, with a feeling of vague surprise : " I have certainly
plenty of courage ; shall I turn out as good a diplomatist, I
wonder ? "

Felicite had not gone to bed. He found her dressed in her
Sunday clothes, wearing a cap with lemon-coloured ribbons,
like a lady expecting visitors. She had sat at the window in
vain ; she had heard nothing, and was dying with curiosity.

*' Well ? " she asked, rushing to meet her husband.

The latter hastened breathlessly into the yellow drawing-
room, whither she followed him, carefully closing the door
behind her. He sank into an arm-chair and said, in a gasping
voice :

" It's done, we shall get the receivership."

She fell on his neck and kissed him.

238 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

''Really? really?" she cried. "But I haven't heard
anything". Oh, my darling husband, do tell me ; tell me all."

She felt fifteen j^ears old again, and began to coax him and
whirl round him with the quick circlings of a moth fascinated
by the light and heat. And Pierre, in the effusion of his
triumph, poured out his heart to her. He did not omit a single
detail. He even explained his future projects, forgetting that,
according to him, wives were no good for anything, and that
his must be kept in complete ignorance if he wished to remain
master. Felicite leant over him, and drank in his words. She
made him tell her certain parts of his story over again, declaring
she had not heard ; in fact, her delight bewildered her so much
that at times she seemed to become quite deaf, her mind being
quite dazed with joy. When Pierre related the events at the
mayor's, she burst out into a fit of laughter, changed her
chair three times, and knocked the furniture about, quite unable
to sit still. After forty years of continuous struggle, fortune
had at last surrendered itself to them. She was going so mad
over it that she forgot all prudence.

" It's to me you owe all this ! " she said in an outburst of
triumph. " If I hadn't looked after you, j^ou would have been
nicely taken in by the insurgents. You booby, it was
Gar9onnet, Sicardot, and the others, that had got to be thrown
to these wild beasts."

Then showing her teeth, loosened by age, she added, with
a girlish smile :

" The Republic for ever ! It has removed all difficulties
and made everything smooth."

But Pierre had turned cross.

"That's just like you! he muttered," you always fancy
you've foreseen everything. It was I who had the idea of
hiding myself. As though women understood anything about
politics 1 Bah, woman, if you were to steer the bark we should
very soon be shipwrecked."

Felicite bit her lips. She had gone too far and forgotten
her role of the good, silent fairy. But she was seized with
that wild exasperation which she felt when her husband tried
to crush her with his superiority. She again promised herself,
when the time had arrived, some exquisite revenge which
would deliver the man into her power, bound hand and
foot.

"Ah! I was forgetting!" resumed Rougon, "Monsieur

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 230

Peirotte is amongst them. Granoux saw him struggling* in
the hands of the insurgents."

Felicite gave a start. She was just at that moment stand-
ing at the window, looking with longing eyes at the windows
of the receiver of taxes. She had felt a desire to have another
look at them, for the idea of a triumph was associated in her
mind with the envy of this fine house, the furniture of which
she had been using in imagination for such a long time.

She turned round, and said in a strange tone :

" Monsieur Peirotte is arrested ! '^

She smiled complacently ; then a crimson blush rushed to
her face. She had just been formulating this murderous re-
flection in her secret heart : "If the insurgents would only
kill him ! '* Pierre, no doubt, read this thought in her
eyes.

" Faith ! if some ball were to hit him," he muttered, " that
would settle our business. There would be no necessity to
supersede him then, eh ? and it would be no fault of ours."

But Felicite shuddered. She felt that she had just con-
demned a man to death. Now, if Monsieur Peirotte were killed,
she would see his phantom at night time. He would come and
haunt her. She only ventured now to cast furtive glances,
full of fearful delight, at the windows opposite. Hencefor-
ward these enjoyments had an edge of guilty terror which
rendered them the more acute.

Moreover, Pierre, having poured out his soul, now per-
ceived the black side of the situation. He mentioned Mac-
quart. How could they get rid of this vagabond? But
Felicite, fired again by the enthusiasm of their triumph, ex-
claimed :

" One can't do everything at once. Zounds ! we'll gag him.
We'll soon find means "

She walked to and fro, putting the arm-chairs in order,
dusting their backs. Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of
the room, and cast a long look on the faded furniture.

" Good heavens ! " she said, "how ugly it is here! And
we shall have everybody coming to call upon us ! "

"Bah!" replied Pierre, with supreme indifference, "we'll
alter all that."

He who, the night before, had entertained a religious vene-
ration for the arm-chairs and the sofa, would have jumped on
them now. Felicite, feeling the same disdain, even went so

240 THE FOETUNE OF THE HOUGOKS.

far as to upset an arm-chair which was short of a castor and
did not yield to her quickly enough.

It was at this moment that Roudier entered. The old woman
thought he was become much more polite. The "Monsieur"
and "Madame" rolled out with a delightful music. Moreover,
their friends were gradually arriving. The drawing-room was
getting full. Nobody knew yet any detailed particulars of the
events of the night, and all came in haste, with their eyes start-
ing out of their heads and a smile on their lips, urged by the
rumours which were now being circulated in the town. These
gentlemen who, on the previous evening, had left the drawing-
room with such precipitation at the news of the insurgents'
approach, came back,. buzzing, curious and importunate, like a
swarm of flies which a gust of wind would have dispersed.
Some of them had not even taken time to put their braces
on. They were very impatient, but it was evident that Rougon
was waiting for some one before speaking. At every minute,
he turned an anxious look towards the door. For an hour
there was nothing but significant shakes of the hand, vague
congratulations, admiring whisperings, and suppressed joy of
uncertain origin, which only awaited a single word to be con-
verted into enthusiasm.

At last Granoux appeared. He lingered for a moment by
the door, with his right hand in his buttoned frock-coat; his
large pale face beaming with delight, endeavouring in vain to
conceal his emotion under a dignified demeanour. On his
appearance they were all silent ; they felt that something
extraordinary was about to take place. Granoux walked
straight up to Rougon, through a crowd of visitors, and held
out his hand to him.

"My friend," he said, "I bring you the homage of the
Municipal Council. They call you to their head, until our
mayor has been restored to us. You have saved Plassans.
In the terrible crisis through which we are passing we want
men who unite your intelligence with your courage. Come "

Granoux, who was reciting a little speech which he had
taken great trouble to prepare on his way from the mayor's
office to the Rue de la Banne, felt his memory becoming con-
fused. But Rougon, overwhelmed with emotion, interrupted
him, shaking his hands as he repeated :

" Thank you, my dear Granoux ; I thank you very much."

He could not find anything else to say. Then followed a

THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 241

deafening outburst of voices. Every one rushed, held out his
hand to him, showered praises and compliments upon him, and
eagerly questioned him. But he, vp-ith already all an official's
dignity, begged for a few minutes in order to confer with
Messrs. Granoux and Roudier. Business before everything.
The town was in such a critical situation I They all three
retired to a corner of the drawing-room, and there, in an
undertone, they divided the power amongst themselves, while
the rest of the visitors, a few feet away, tried to look very wise
and cast furtive glances of mingled admiration and curiosity at
them. Rougon was to take the title of president of the Muni-
cipal Commission ; Granoux was to be secretary ; as for
Roudier, he became commander-in-chief of the re-organised
National Guard. These gentlemen swore to give each other a
mutual support against all opposition.

Felicite, who had approached them, asked abruptly :

"And Yuillet?"

They looked at each other. Nobody had seen Yuillet.
Rougon looked somewhat uneasy.

" Perhaps they've taken him away with the others," he said,
to ease his mind.

But Felicite shook her head. Vuillet was not the man to
let himself be arrested. From the moment that nobody saw or
heard him, it was certain he was doing something wrong.

Suddenly the door opened and Vuillet entered, bowing
humbly, with his blinking eyes and his stiff sacristan's smile.
Then he held out his moist hand to Rougon and the two others.
Vuillet had managed his little affairs alone. He had cut his own
slice out of the cake, as Felicite would have said. He had seen
through the ventilator of his cellar the insurgents come and arrest
the post-master, whose offices were near his book-shop. At day-
break, therefore, at the time when Rougon was comfortably
seated in the mayor's arm-chair, he had gone and quietly
installed himself in the post-master's office. He knew the
clerks ; he had received them on their arrival, telling them that
he would replace their chief until his return, and that they need
not be at all uneasy. Then he ransacked the morning mail
with an ill-concealed curiosity. He examined the letters, and
seemed to be seeking a particular one. No doubt his new
berth quite fell in with and suited his secret plans, for he went
60 far, in his satisfaction, as to give a copy of the " QEuvres
Badines de Piron " to one of the clerks. Vuillet had a miscel'

242 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

laneous collection of obscene books, which he kept concealed in
a large drawer, under a lot of beads and holy images; it
was he who inundated the town with indecent photographs and
engravings, without the least prejudice to the sale of his
pra^'er-books. He probably felt some slight qualms, however,
at the free and easy manner in which he had taken possession
of the post-ofiSce, and recognising the desirability of getting
his usurpation confirmed as far as possible, he had hastened
to Rougon's house, as he was decidedly a very important
personage.

" Where did you get to ? " Felicite asked in a distrustful
manner.

Then he related his story with embellishments. According
to his own account he had saved the post-office from pillage.

" All right ! that's settled ! Stay on there ! " said Pierre,
after a moment's reflection. " Make yourself useful."

This last sentence breathed out the one great fear of the
Rougons. They were alarmed lest any one else should turn
out more useful than themselves, and prove of greater service
to the town. But Pierre saw no serious dano^er in leaving"
Vuillet interim post-master ; and it was a convenient means of
getting rid of him. Felicite made a sharp gesture of opposition.

The consultation ended, the gentlemen went to mingle
with the various groups that filled the drawing-room. They
at last were obliged to satisfy the general curiosity, and were
compelled to relate in detail the events of the morning.
Rougon was magnificent. He exaggerated, embellished, and
dramatised the story which he had related to his wife. The
distribution of the guns and cartridges made everybody hold
their breath. But it was the march through the deserted
streets and the seizure of the mayor's offices that struck these
citizens dumb. At every fresh detail there was an interruption.

" And you were only forty-one ; it's marvellous ! "

" Ah, indeed ! it must have been frightfully dark ! "

" No ; I confess I should never have dared it ! "

*' Then you seized him, like this, by the throat ! "

" And the insurgents, what did they say ? "

But these short sentences only incited Rougon's heated
imagination all the more. He replied to ever^'body. He
mimicked the action. This stout man, in the admiration of his
own achievements, became as nimble as a school-boy ; he re-
commenced and repeated himself amidst cross conversations,

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 243

exclamations of surprise, and individual discussions which
arose suddenly about the most trifling* detail. And thus he
continued swelling" himself out, carried away by his heroic
excitement. Granoux and Roudier stood by his side, whispering
to him and reminding* him of little trifling- matters which he
omitted. They were burning also to put in a word themselves,
to relate some episode ; occasionally they could not restrain
themselves from breaking- in, and all three went on talking-
together. But when, in order to keep the episode of the
broken mirror for the denouement, for a crowning- glory,
Rougon began to describe what took place downstairs in the
courtyard, after the arrest of the guard, Roudier accused him of
spoiling the narrative by changing the order of events. They
wrangled about it for an instant or two somewhat sharply.
Then Roudier, seeing a good opportunity for himself, promptly
exclaimed :

" Very well, let it bo so. But you weren't there. Let me
tell it."

He thereupon explained at great length how the insurgents
had woke up, and how the muskets had been levelled at them
to reduce them to impotence. He added that, fortunately, no
blood had been shed. This last sentence disappointed the
audience, who counted upon one corpse at least.

*' But I thought you fired," Felicite interrupted, recognising
that the story was miserably wanting in dramatic interest.

'* Yes, yes, three shots," resumed the old hosier. " The pork-
butcher Dubruel, Monsieur Lievin, and Monsieur Massicot
discharged their guns with a really culpable alacrity."

And as there were some murmurs at this remark :

*' Culpable, I repeat the word," he continued. " War has
quite enough necessary cruelties without uselessly shedding
blood. Besides, these gentlemen swore to me that it was not
their fault : they can't understand how it was their guns went
off. llowever, a spent ball, after having made a ricochet,
grazed the cheek of one of the insurgents."

This graze, this unexpected wound, satisfied the audience.
On which cheek was the graze, and how could a ball, a spent
one even, strike a cheek without piercing it ? This supplied
material for some long discussions.

"Upstairs," continued Rougon at the top of his voice,
without giving time for the excitement to abate ; " upstairs wq
bad plenty to do. The struggle was very desperate."

244 THE FORTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

And he described, at great length, the arrest of his brother
and the four other insurgents, without naming" Macquart, whom
he called ''the leader." The words, "the mayor's office,"
" the arm-chair," " the mayor's writing table," rose to his lips at
every instant, and, in the ears of his audience, lent a marvel-
lous grandeur to this terrible scene. It was not at the porter's
lodge now that the fight was being waged, but in the room
of the chief magistrate of the town. Roudier was put in the
back-ground and Rougon at last came to the episode which he
had been keeping in reserve from the commencement, and
which would certainly exalt him to the dignity of a hero.

"Thereupon," he said, "an insurgent rushes upon me. I
push the mayor's arm-chair away, and seize the man by the
throat. I hold him tight, you may be sure ! But my gun
was in my way. I didn't want to let it drop ; a man always
sticks to his gun. I held it, like this, under the left arm. All

of a sudden, it went off "

The whole audience hung on Rougon's lips. Granoux, who
was opening his mouth wide with a violent itching to say some-
thing, shouted :

" No, no, that isn't right. You were not in a position to see,
my friend ; you were fighting like a lion. But I saw every-
thing, as I was helping to bind one of the prisoners. The man
tried to murder you ; it was he who discharged the gun ; I saw
him distinctly shp his black fingers under your arm."
" Really? " said Rougon, turning quite pale.
He did not know he had been in such danger, and the ac-
count of the old almond-merchant chilled him with fright.
Granoux, as a rule, did not lie ; but, on a day of battle, it is
surely allowable to view things dramatically.

"I tell you the man tried to murder you," he repeated, with
conviction.

" Ah," said Rougon in an audible voice, " that's how it is I
heard the ball whiz past my ear ! "

A violent emotion seized the audience, who seemed overawed
before this hero. He had heard a ball whiz past his ear !
Certainly, none of the citizens who were there could say as
much. Felicite felt bound to rush into her husband's arms, to
work up the emotion of the assembly to boiling point. But
Rougon immediately freed himself, and concluded his narra-
tive with this heroic sentence, which has become famous at
Plassans ;

THE FOETUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 245

" The shot goes off ; I hear the ball whiz past my ear ; and,
whish ! the ball smashes the mayor's mirror."

This caused a complete consternation. Such a magnificent

mirror, too! it was scarcely credible! The havoc wrought

in the room almost out-balanced Rougon's heroism in the

estimation of the company. The mirror became an object of

absorbing interest, and they talked about it for a quarter of an

hour, with many exclamations and expressions of pit}^ and

effusions of regret, as though it had been some dear friend that

had been stricken to the heart. This was the culminatino-

point that Rougon aimed at, the denouement of that wonderful

Odyssey of his. A loud hubbub of voices filled the yellow

drawing-room. They were repeating to each other what they

had just heard, and every now and then some one left one of

the groups to go and ask the three heroes the exact version of

some contested incident. The heroes set the matter straight

with a scrupulous minuteness, for they felt that they were

speaking for history.

In the meantime, Rougon and his two lieutenants announced
that they were expected at the mayor's. A respectful silence
was restored, and the company smiled at each other discreetly.
Granoux was swelling with importance. He was the only one
who had seen the insurgent pull the trigger and smash the
mirror ; that magnified him, and made him almost burst out of
his skin. On leaving the drawing-room, he took Roudier's
arm, with the air of a great general broken down with fatigue,
murmuring at the same time :

" I've been up for thirty-six hours, and God knows when I
shall get to bed ! "

Rougon, as he left, took Vuillet aside and told him that tho
peace party relied more than ever on him and the " Gazette ; "
he would have to publish a good article to reassure the in-
habitants and treat that band of villains who had passed through
Plassans as it deserved.

" Don't be uneasy!" Vuillet replied. " The ' Gazette ' ought
not in the ordinar^^ course to appear till to-morrow morning, 'but
I'll issue it this very evening."

When they had left, the rest of the visitors in the yellow
drawing-room remained there for a moment, chattering like
old women gathered together on the pavement to watch an
escaped canary. These retired tradesmen, oil dealers, and
hatters, felt themselves in a sort of fairyland. Never had

Q

246 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOTJGONS.

they experienced such thrilliDg- excitement before. They
could not get over their surprise at discovering that such
heroes as Rougon, Granoux, and Roudier had proved them-
selves to be had been living amongst them. At last, half
stifled, and tired of telling each other the same things, they
felt an eager longing to go and spread abroad the momentous
news. They glided away one by one, each anxious to have
the glory of being the first to tell the w^onderful story, and
Felicite, left alone, saw them, as she leaned out of the window,
hurrying along the Rue de la Banne, waving their arms
in an excited manner as they puffed and panted off to the four
corners of the town.

It was ten o'clock, and all Plassans, roused from its sleep,
was running about in the streets, wildly excited by the reports
which were circulating. Those who had seen or heard the
insurrectionary band, related the most tedious stories, con-
tradicting each other, and indulging in the wildest suppositions.
The majority, however, knew nothing at all about the matter ;
they lived at the further end of the town, and hearkened with
gaping mouths, like children listening to a nursery tale, to the
story of several thousand bandits invading the streets, and
vanishing before daylight like an army of phantoms. A few
of the most sceptical said: "Nonsense!" Some of the
details, however, were very precise. Plassans was at last
convinced that a frightful danger had passed over it, while it
was asleep, without touching it. The gloom of the night, and
the various contradictory reports concerning what had happened,
invested the matter v^ith a character of mystery and an inde-
finable terror, which made the most courageous persons shudder.
Whose hand had diverted the thunderbolt from them ? There
seemed to be something quite miraculous about it. There were
rumours of unknown deliveries, of a handful of brave men who
had cut off the hydra's head ; but no one seemed to know any
details, and the whole story appeared scarcely credible, until
the company from the yellow drawing-room began to bustle
about the streets, relating the events of the night to every one
they met.

It was like a train of powder. In a few minutes the story
had spread from one end of the town to the other. Rougon's
name flew from mouth to mouth, with exclamations of surprise
in the new town, and eulogistic cries in the old quarter. The
idea of being without a sub-prefect, a mayor, a post-master, a

THE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS. 247

receiver of taxes, or authorities of any kind, at first threw the
inhabitants into consternation. They were stupefied at having
been able to sleep through the night and get up as usual, in
the absence of any settled government. Their first stupor
over, they threw themselves recklessly into the arms of the
liberators. The few republicans shrugged their shoulders, but
the little retail shopkeepers, the small householders, the
conservatives of all shades, invoked blessings on those
modest heroes whose achievements had been performed in the
obscurity of the night. When it was known that Eougon had
arrested his own brother, the popular admiration knew no
bounds. They talked of Brutus, and the indiscretion, which
had made him rather anxious, really redounded to his glory.
While their terror still hovered over them, they were unanimous
in their gratitude. Rougon was accepted as their saviour
without a show of opposition.

"Just think!" the scared folks said, " there were only
forty-one of them ! "

This number of forty- one was a standing wonder to the
whole town, and this was the origin of the Plassans legend of
forty-one citizens having made three thousand insurgents bite
the dust. It was only a few envious spirits of the new town,
lawyers without work and retired military men, ashamed of
having slept inglorious through that memorable night, who
raised any doubts. The insurgents, these sceptics hinted, no
doubt left the town of their own accord. There were no
indications of a combat, no corpse, no blood-stains. These
gentlemen had certainly had a very easy task.

"But the mirror, the mirror!" repeated the enthusiasts.
"You can't deny that the mayor's mirror has been smashed;
go and see it for yourselves."

And, in fact, until night-time, there was quite a stream of
the town's-people flocking, under one pretext or another, into
the ofiSce, the door of which Rougon left wide open. They
planted themselves in front of the mirror, which a bullet had
pierced and starred, and they all gave vent to the same
exclamation :

" By Jove I the ball must have gone with terrible force ! "

They then departed quite convinced.

Felicite, at her window, listened with delight to all the
rumours and laudatory and grateful remarks which were
bandied about the town. At that moment all Plassans was

248 THE FORTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

talking" of her husband. She felt a quiver run through the two
districts that lay beneath her, and which w^af ted her the hope of
an approaching" triumph. Ah ! how she would crush down that
town which she had been so long in getting" beneath her foot !
All her grievances crowded back to her memory, and her
past disappointments redoubled her appetite for immediate
enjo^^ment.

She left the window, and walked slowly round the drawing-
room. It was there that, a few minutes previously, everybody
had held out their hands to her and her husband. They
had conquered ; the citizens were at their feet. The j'ellow
drawing-room seemed to her a holy place. The dilapidated
furniture, the frayed velvet, the lustres all soiled with fly-
specks, all those poor wrecks of their former selves shone
in her eyes with all the glory of the bullet-riddled debris of a
field of battle. The plain of Austerlitz w^ould not have stirred
her to deeper emotion.

When she returned to the window, she perceived Aristide
wandering about the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, with his
nose in the air. She beckoned to him to come up. He seemed
to be only waiting for this invitation.

" Come in," his mother said to him on the landing, seeing
that he hesitated. " Your father is not here."

Aristide manifested all the shyness of a prodigal about
returning home. He had not been inside the yellow drawing-
room for nearly four years. He still carried his arm in a sling.

" Does your hand still pain you ? " his mother asked him,
ironically.

He blushed as he answered with some embarrassment :

"Oh ! it's getting better ; it's nearly well again now."

He lingered there, loitering about and not knowing what
to say. Felicite came to the rescue.

" I suppose you've heard them talking about your father's
noble conduct ? " she resumed.

He replied that the whole town was talking of it. But as
he regained his self-possession, he paid his mother back in her
own coin for her raillery, and looked at her full in the face as
he added :

" I came to see if father was wounded."

" Come, don't play the fool ! " cried Felicite, petulantly.
" If I were you I w^ould put myself right at once. You
must confess that j'ou made a false move in joining those

THE FORTUNE UF THE KOtJGOKS. 249

g'ood-for-notliing' republicans. You would be ver}- glad now,
I'm sure, to be well rid of them, and to return to us, who are
the stronger party. Well, the house is open to you ! "

But Aristide protested. The Republic was a grand idea.
Moreover, the insurgents might still carry the day.

" Don't talk your nonsense to me I " the old woman con-
tinued, with some irritation. " You're afraid your father won't
have a very warm welcome for you. I'll see to that. Listen
to me: go back to your newspaper, and, between this and to-
morrow, prepare a number strongly favouring the Coup d'^fitat ;
to-morrow evening, when this number has appeared, come
back here and you will be received with open arms."

But seeing the young man remained silent :

"Do you hear?" she added, in a lower and more eager
tone ; "it is necessary for our sake, and for your own, too,
that it should be done. Don't let us have any more of your
nonsense and folly. You've already compromised yourself
enough in that way."

The young man made a gesture — the gesture of a Ctesar
passing the Rubicon — and by doing so escaped entering into
any verbal engagement. As he was about to withdraw, his
mother, looking for the knot in his sling, added :

" And, first of all, you must let me take off this rag. It's
getting a little ridiculous, j^ou know ! "

Aristide let her remove it. When the silk handkerchief was
untied, he folded it neatly and put it in his pocket. Then he
said, as he kissed his mother :

" To-morrow, then ! "

During this time, Rougon was taking official possession of
the mayor's offices. There were onl}- eight municipal councillors
left ; the others were in the hands of the insurgents, as well as the
mayor and the two deputies. These eight gentlemen, who
were all about on a par with Granoux, perspired with fright
when the latter explained to them the critical situation of the
town. It requires an intimate knowledge of the kind of men
who compose the municipal councils of some of the smaller
towns, in order to form an idea of the terror with which these
timid folk hastened to throw themselves into Rougon's arms.
At Plassans, the mayor had the most incredible blockheads
under him, without any ideas of their own, and accustomed to
the most passive obedience. Consequently, as Monsieur Gar-
9onnet was no longer there, the municipal machine was bound to

250 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

get out of order, and to fall completely under the control of the
man who knew how to pull the strings. The sub-prefect being
at that moment absent from the country, Rougon naturally
became sole and absolute master of the town; and thus,
in a most extraordinary way, the chief administrative authority
fell into the hands of a man of bad repute, whom, on
the previous evening, not one of his fellow-citizens would have
trusted with a hundred francs.

Pierre's first act was to declare the Provisional Commission
permanent. Then he gave his attention to the re-organisation
of the national guard, and succeeded in raising three hundred
men ; the hundred and nine guns left in the cart-shed were
distributed, thereby bringing up the number of men armed by the
reactionary party to one hundred and fifty ; the remaining one
hundred and fifty national guards consisted of well-affected
citizens and some of Sicardot's soldiers. When Commander
Eoudier reviewed the little army in front of the town-hall, he
was annoyed to see the market-people smiling in their sleeves ;
his men had not all got uniforms, and some of them looked
very droll with their black hats, frock-coats, and muskets.
But, at any rate, they meant well. A guard was left at the
mayor's. The rest of the little army was despatched in groups
to the different gates of the town. Roudier reserved to him-
self the command of the guard stationed at the Grand' Porte,
which was more open to attack than the others.

Rougon, who now felt very conscious of his power, went in
person to the Rue Canouoin to beg the gendarmes to remain at
home and not interfere with an3"thing. Moreover, he had the
doors of the gendarmerie opened, the keys of which had been
carried off by the insurgents. But he wanted to triumph alone,
and had no intention of letting the gendarmes rob him of
any part of his glory. If he should really stand in need of them
he could always send for them. He explained to them that their
presence might tend to irritate the working-men and would
only aggravate the situation. The sergeant complimented him
on his prudence. When he was informed that there was a
wounded man in the barracks, Rougon, with a view to gaining'
popularity, asked to see him. He found Rengade in bed, with
his eye bandaged, and his big moustache just peeping from
under the linen. With some high-sounding words about duty,
he endeavoured to comfort the fellow who, blind in one eye,
was swearing and blowing with exasperation at his wound,

I

THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGO^*S. 251

■^hich would compel him to quit the service. He promised to
send the doctor to him.

"I'm much obliged to you, sir," Rengade replied; "but,
YOU know, what would do me more good than any quantity of
doctor's stuff would be to wring the neck of the villain who
has put my eye out. Oh 1 I shall know him again ; he's a
little thin, palish, young man "

Pierre bethought himself of the blood which covered Sil-
Tere's hand. He stepped back a little, as though he was afraid
that Rengade would fly at his throat, and cry: "It is your
nephew who has blinded me ; and you will have to pay for it."
And whilst he was cursing his disreputable family m his own
mind, he solemnly declared that if the guilty person were
found he should be punished with all the rigour of the law.

" Xo, no, it isn't worth all that trouble," the one-eyed man
replied; " I'll just wring his neck for him when I catch him."

Rougon hastened back to the mayor's. The afternoon was
emploj'ed in taking various measures. The proclamation,
posted up at about one o'clock, produced an excellent impres-
sion. It ended by an appeal to the good sense of the citizens,
and gave a firm assurance that order would not again be
disturbed. Until dusk, in fact, the streets presented a picture
of general relief and perfect confidence. On the pavements,
the groups who were reading the proclamation exclaimed :

"It's all finished now; we shall soon see the troops who
have been sent in pursuit of the insurgents."

This belief that the soldiers were approaching was so
general that the idlers of the Cours Sauvaire repaired to the
Nice road, in order to meet the band. They returned at night
disappointed, having seen nothing ; and a feeling of vague
alarm began to disturb the townspeople.

At the mayor's, the Provisional Commission had talked so
much, without coming to any conclusion, that the members,
whose stomachs were quite empty, frightened themselves by
their own eloquence, and began to feel quite alarmed again.
Rougon dismissed them to dine, convoking them afresh for
nine o'clock in the evening. He was just about to leave the
room himself, when Macquart woke up and began to hammer
violently against the door of his prison. He said he was
hungry, then he asked what time it was. and when his
brother told him it was five o'clock, he pretended to be very
much astonished, and muttered, with sly malice, that the

252 THE FOUTUNE OF THE EOtJGONS.

insurgents had promised to return much earlier, and that they
were very slow about coming to let him out. Rougon, having
ordered some food to be taken to him, went downstairs, quite
worried by the earnestness with which Macquart spoke of the
return of the insurgents.

AVhen he got into the street, his disquietude was increased.
The town seemed to him quite altered. It wore a strange
aspect ; shadows were gliding along the footpaths, which were
growing deserted and silent, while, with the approaching dusk,
a sense of gloomy fear seemed to be slowly but persistently
mantling round the mournful-looking houses, like a misty rain.
The babbling confidence of the day was terminating miserably
in groundless apprehensions, and in increasing alarms as the
night came on ; the inhabitants were so weary and worn out
with their triumph that they had no strength left, and could
think of nothing but a terrible retaliation on the part of the
insurgents. Rougon shuddered as he passed through this
wave of terror. He hastened his steps with a heavy heart.
As he passed in front of the cafe in the Place des Recollets,
where the lamps had just been lit, and where the small house-
holders of the new town were assembled, he heard a few words
which terrified him very much.

" Well ! Monsieur Picou," said a thick voice, " you've heard
the news ? The regiment that was expected has not arrived."

" But nobod}^ expected any regiment, Monsieur Touche," a
shrill voice replied.

" I beg your pardon. You haven't read the proclamation,
then?"

" Oh yes, it's true the placards declare that order will be
maintained by force, if necessary."

" You see, then, there's force mentioned ; that means armed
force, of course."

'< What do they say?"

"Well, you know, folks are beginning to feel rather
frightened ;' they say that this delay on the part of the soldiers
is very extraordinary, and that it's very possible the insurgents
have slaughtered them."

There was a cry of horror in the cafe. Rougon was
inclined to go in and tell the citizens that the proclamation had
never announced the arrival of a regiment, that they had no
right to force the text to such a degree, nor to spread about
such foolish theories. But he himself, in the flutter of mind

The fortune of the hougoks. ^53

into •which he was quickly falling-, was not quite sure he had
not counted upon a despatch of troops, and he did, in fact,
consider it strange that not a single soldier had made his
appearance. He went home in a very uneasy state of mind.
Felicite, petulant and enthusiastic, got quite angry at seeing
him upset by such silly trifles. Over the dessert she comforted
him.

** Well, you great simpleton," she said, " so much the
better, if the prefect does forget us ! AVe shall save the town
by ourselves. For my part, I should like to see the insurgents
return, so that we might receive them with bullets and cover
ourselves with glory. Listen to me, go and have the gates
closed, and don't go to bed ; bustle about all night ; it will all
be taken into account later on."

Pierre returned to the mayor's in rather more cheerful spirits.
He required some courage to remain firm amidst the woeful
maunderings of his colleagues. The very clothes of the members
of the Provisional Commission seemed to reek with panic, just as
they did with the smell of damp in the rainy season. They all
professed to have counted upon the despatch of a regiment, and
began to exclaim that brave citizens ought not to be abandoned
in such a manner to the fury of the rabble. Pierre, to preserve
peace, almost promised they should have a regiment on the
morrow. Then he announced, in a solemn manner, that he was
going to have the gates closed. This was a relief. Parties of
the national guards were ordered to repair immediately to each
gate and double-lock it. When they had returned, several
members confessed that they really felt more comfortable ; and
when Pierre said that the critical situation of the town im-
posed upon them the duty of remaining at their posts, some of
them made their little arrangements with the view of passing
the night in an arm-chair. Granoux put on a black silk cap
which he had brought with him by way of precaution. Towards
eleven o'clock, half of these gentlemen were sleeping round
Monsieur Gar^onnet's writing-table. Those who still managed
to keep their eyes open were dreaming, as they listened to the
measured tramp of the national guards in the courtyard, that
they were heroes receiving decorations. A large lamp, placed on
the writing-table, illumined this strange armed vigil. Rougon,
who seemed to be slumbering, jumped up all of a sudden and
sent for Vuillet. He had just remembered that he had not
received the " Gazette."

254 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGOKS.

The bookseller made his appearance in an arrogant and very
bad humour.

*' Well ! " Rougon asked him as he took him aside, " what
about the article you promised me ? I haven't seen the paper."

" Is that what you disturbed me for ? " Vuillet angrily
retorted. " The ' Gazette' has not been issued ; I've no desire
to get mj^self murdered to-morrow, should the insurgents
come back."

Rougon tried to smile as he declared that, thank God,
nobody would be murdered. It was precisely because false
and disquieting rumours were running about that the article in
question would have rendered a great service to the good cause.

" Possibly," Vuillet resumed, " but the best of causes at
the present time is to keep one's head on one's shoulders."

And he added, with pointed maliciousness :

'' And I was under the impression you had killed all the
insurgents ! You've left too many of them for me to run
any risk."

Rougon, when he was alone again, felt amazed at this
mutiny of a man usually so meek and mild. Yuillet's con-
duct appeared to him suspicious. But he had no time to seek
an explanation ; he had scarcely stretched himself out afresh
in his arm-chair, when Roudier entered, with a sabre, which he
had attached to his belt, clattering noisily against his legs.
The sleepers woke up in a fright. Granoux thought it was a
call to arms.

'' Hullo there ! What's the matter ? " he asked, as he
hastily put his black silk cap into his pocket.

" Gentlemen," said Roudier, out of breath, without thinking
of taking any oratorical precaution, " I believe a band of
insurgents is approaching the town."

These words were received with a terrified silence.
Rougon alone had the strength to say :

" Have you seen them ? "

*' No," the retired hosier replied ; " but we hear strange noises
out in the country ; one of my men assured me that he had
seen fires along the slope of the Garrigues."

And, as all these gentlemen, white and speechless, stared at
each other :

" I'll return to my post," he continued. *' I fear an attack.
You had better take precautions."

Rougon would have followed him, to obtain some further

THE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS. 255

particulars, but he was already too far away. The Commission
was by no means inclined to g-o to sleep again. Strange
noises ! Fires ! An attack ! And that in the middle of the
night, too ! It was very easy to talk of taking precautions,
but what were they to do ? Granoux was very near advising
the tactics which had been so successful the previous evening:
to hide themselves, wait till the insurgents had passed through
Plassans, and then pass in triumph through the deserted streets.
Pierre, fortunately remembering his wife's advice, said that
Roudier might have made a mistake, and that the best thing
would be to go and see for themselves. Some of the members
made a wry face ; but when it had been agreed that an armed
escort should accompany the Commission, they all descended
very courageously. They only left a few men down-stairs,
surrounding themselves with about thirty of the national
guards ; then they ventured into the slumbering town. The
moon creeping over the roofs cast lengthened shadows. They
went along the ramparts, from one gate to the other, seeing
nothing' on the obstructed horizon, and hearing nothing. The
national guards at the various posts told them that peculiar
sounds reached them from the country through the closed
gates. They strained their ears but caught nothing but a distant
roar, which Granoux said was merely the noise of the Yiorne.

In the meantime, they were very uneasy. As they were
about to return to the mayor's very much pre-occupied, though
they made a show at the same time of shrugging their shoulders
and of treating Roudier as a poltroon and a dreamer, Rougon,
who was very anxious to fully reassure his friends, was struck
with the idea of showing them the plain at several leagues dis-
tance. He led the little company to the Saint-Marc quarter
and knocked at the door of the Valqueyras mansion.

The count, since the commencement of the disturbance, had
left for his chateau at Corbiere. There was no one but the
Marquis de Carnavant in the house. Since the previous evening
he had prudently kept himself aloof; not that he was afraid,
but because he did not care to be seen plotting with the
Rougons at the critical moment. As a matter of fact, he was
burning with curiosity. He had been compelled to shut him-
self up to resist the temptation of running to look at the
wonderful intrigues of the yellow drawing-room. When the
footman came to tell him, in the middle of the night, that there
were some gentlemen below asking for him, he could not pre-

256 THE FOBTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

serve his prudence any longer ; he got up and went downstairs
in great haste.

" My dear marquis," said Rougon, as he introduced the
members of the Municipal Commission to him, " we want to ask
you a favour. Will you allow us to go into the garden of the
mansion ? "

" By all means," replied the marquis, astonished, " I will
conduct you there myself."

On the way there he ascertained what their object was.
At the end of the garden there was a terrace which overlooked
the plain ; in this spot, a large piece of the ramparts had tumbled
in, leaving a boundless horizon open to view. Rougon
had understood that that would serve as an excellent post
of observation. While they were conversing, the members of
the Commission leaned over the parapet. The strange spectacle
that opened out before them struck them dumb. In the dis-
tance, in the valley of the Viorne, in the immense hollow which
sank down into the west, between the chain of the Garrigues
and the mountains of the Seille, the raj^s of the moon flowed
like a stream of pale light. The clusters of trees, the gloomy
rocks, looked, here and there, like islets and tongues of land,
emerging from the luminous sea ; and where the Viorne formed
angles, one could distinguish detached portions of the river
which, glittering like armour, peered through the fine silvery
dust falling from the firmament. It looked like an ocean, a
world, boundlessly magnified by the darkness, the cold, and
their own secret fears. At first the gentlemen could neither
hear nor see anything. The quivering light and the distant
sounds blinded their eyes and confused their ears. Grauoux,
who was not naturally poetic, overwhelmed by the calm
serenity of this winter night, murmured :

" What a beautiful night, gentlemen ! "

*' Roudier was certainly dreaming," Rougon said, rather
disdainfully.

But the marquis strained his delicate ears.

*' Ah ! " he observed in his clear voice, " I hear the tocsin."

They all bent over the parapet, holding their breath. And
light and pure as crystal rose from the plain the distant toll-
ing of a bell. The gentlemen could not deny it. It was
indeed the tocsin. Rougon pretended that he recognised it as
the bell of Beage, a village fully a league from Plassans. He
said that in order to reassure his colleagues.

THE MUNICIPAL COMMISSION WATCHING THE SIGNAL FIRES OF THE

INSURGENTS. P- 257.

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 257

*' Listen, listen," the marquis interrupted: -'this time it is
the bell of Saint-Maur."

And he indicated another point of the horizon to them.
There was, in fact, a second bell wailing- through the clear
night. There were very soon ten bells, twenty bells, the
despairing tollings of which were caught hy their ears, which
had by this time grown accustomed to the quivering of the vast
expanse of darkness. Ominous calls rose from all sides, faint and
like the rattles of a dying man. Soon the whole plain seemed
to be wailing. The gentlemen no longer jeered at Roudier.
The marquis, who took a malicious delight in terrifying them,
was kind enough to explain the cause of all this bell-ringing.

" It is the neighbouring villages," he said to Rougon,
'' banding together to attack Plassans at daybreak."

Granoux opened his ej'es wide.

"You don't see an3^thing over there?" he asked all of a
sudden.

Nobody looked ; the gentlemen closed their eyes in order
to hear better.

"Ah! look!" he resumed after a short silence. "Beyond
the Yiorne, near that black mass."

"Yes, I see," replied Rougon, disheartened; "it's a fire
theyVe kindling."

Another fire was lit almost immediately in front of the first,-
then a third, and a fourth. Red spots appeared thus through-
out the whole length of the valley, at nearly equal distances,
resembling the lamps of a gigantic avenue. The moon, which
half eclipsed them, made them look like pools of blood. This
melancholy illumination completed the consternation of the
Municipal Commission.

" By Jove ! " the marquis muttered, with his bitterest sneer,
" these brigands are signalling to each other." And he counted
the fires complacently, to get some idea, he said, as to how
many men "the brave National Guard of Plassans" would
have to deal with. Rougon endeavoured to raise doubts by
saying the villages were taking up arms in order to join the
army of the insurgents, and not for the purpose of attacking
the town. The gentlemen, by their silent consternation,
made it clear that they had formed their own opinion, and were
not to be consoled.

"I can hear the 'Marseillaise' now," Granoux said in a
hushed voice.

258 THE FORTUNE OP THE EOUGONS.

It was indeed true. A detacliment was following the course
of the Viorne and was passing-, at that moment, just under the
town. The cry, "Then up, and form j^our ranks!" reached
them on the breeze with vibrating- distinctness. It was an
agonising night. The gentlemen spent it reclining on the
parapet of the terrace, frozen by the terrible cold, quite unable
to tear themselves away from gazing upon the plain that re-
sounded with the tocsin and the "Marseillaise," and was all ablaze
with the illumination of the signal-fires. They feasted their
eyes upon this sea of light, all flecked with blood-red flames ; and
they strained their ears in order to listen to the confused
clamour, till at last their senses began to deceive them, and
they saw and heard the most frightful things. Nothing in the
world would have induced them to leave the place. If they
had turned their backs, they would have fancied that a whole
army was at their heels. After the manner of a certain class
of cowards, they wanted to see the approach of the danger,
that they might take flight at the right moment. Towards
morning, when the moon had set and they could see nothing
in front of them but the dark chasm, they were in a terrible
fright. They fancied they were surrounded by invisible ene-
mies, who were crawling along in the darkness, ready to fly at
their throats. At the least noise they imagined there were
enemies deliberating beneath the terrace, previous to scaling
it. Yet there was nothing, nothing but darkness in which they
fixed their eyes distractedly. The marquis, as if to console
them, said in his ironical voice :

" Don't be at all uneasy ! They will wait till daybreak."
Rougon cursed and swore. He felt himself again giving
way to fear. Granoux's hair turned completely white. At
last the dawn appeared with weary slowness. It was still a
terribly anxious moment. The gentlemen, at the first ray of
light, expected to see an army drawn up in line before the
town. On this particular morning the dawn lingered and
dallied on the edge of the horizon. With outstretched neck
and fixed gaze they peered anxiously into the white misty ex-
panse. In the dim and uncertain light they caught glimpses
of colossal profiles, and the plain seemed to be transformed
into a lake of blood, while the rocks looked like corpses float-
ing on its surface, and the clusters of trees took the forms of
battalions drawn up for an attack. When the growing day-
light had at last dispersed these phantoms, the morning broke

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 259

60 pale, so mournful, so melancholy, that even the marquis's
spirits sank. Not a single insurgent was to be seen, and the
high roads were free ; but the grey valley wore a gruesomely
sad and deserted aspect. The fires were extinguished,
but the bells still rang out. Towards eight o'clock, Rougon
observed only a small troop of men who were moving off along
the Viorne.

The gentlemen were dead with cold and fatigue. Seeing
no immediate danger, they determined to go and take a few
hours' rest. A national guard was left on the terrace as
sentinel, with orders to run and inform Roudier if he should
perceive any band in the distance. Granoux and Rougon,
quite worn out by the emotions of the night, repaired to their
homes, which were in the neighbourhood, mutually encourag-
ing each other.

Felicite put her husband to bed with every care. She
called him " poor dear," and repeatedly told him that he ought
not to give way to such imaginations of evil, and that all would
end well. But he shook his head ; he felt grave apprehensions.
She let him sleep till eleven o'clock. Then, after he had
had something to eat, she gently dismissed him, making him
understand that he must go through with the matter to the end.
At the mayor's, Rougon found only four members of the Com-
mission ; the others sent excuses ; they were really ill. An
increased feeling of fear had been pervading the town with
growing strength since the morning. The gentlemen had not
been able to keep secret the history of the memorable night
they had passed on the terrace of the Valqueyras mansion.
Their servants had hastened to spread the news, embellishing-
it with various dramatic details. By this time it had already
become tnatter of history that there had been seen in the
country, from the heights of Plassans, troops of cannibals
dancing as they devoured their prisoners, and bands of witches
circling round their cauldrons in which they were boiling
children, as well as endless files of bandits whose weapons
glittered in the moonlight. PeojDle spoke of bells that sounded
the tocsin of their own accord through the desolate air, and
asserted that the insurgents had set fire to the neighbouring
forests, and that the whole country was in flames.

It was Tuesday, the market-day at Plassans, and Roudier
had thought it necessary to have the gates opened wide in
order to admit the few peasants who brought vegetables,

2G0 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

butter, and eggs. As soon as it had assembled, the Municipal
Commission, composedof five members onty? including the presi-
dent, declared that this was an unpardonable imprudence. Even
though the sentinel stationed at the Valque^^as mansion had
seen nothing, the town should have been kept closed. Then
Rougon decided that the public crier, accompanied by a drum,
should go the round of the streets, proclaim a state of
siege, and announce to the inhabitants that whoever went out
would not be allowed to return. The gates were officially
closed at noon. This measure, adopted in order to reassure
the inhabitants, raised the scare to its highest pitch. There
could scarcely have been a more curious sight than this
city, padlocking and bolting itself up beneath the mid-day
sun, in the middle of the nineteenth century.

When Plassans had buckled and tightened its belt of
dilapidated ramparts, and had bolted itself in like a besieged
fortress at the approach of an assault, a mortal panic passed
over the mournful houses. At every moment, in the centre of
the town, people fancied they heard a discharge of musketry
in the Faubourg. They no longer received any news ; they
were, so to speak, at the bottom of a cellar, in a walled hole,
where they were anxiously awaiting their deliverance or the
finishing stroke. For the last two days the insurgents, who
were scouring the country, had cut off all communication.
Plassans, shut up in the corner in which it is built, found itself
completely isolated from the rest of France. It felt itself
in the midst of a country in open rebellion, where the tocsin
was ever ringing and the " Marseillaise " was ever roaring with
the clamour of a river overflowing its banks. . The town,
abandoned and panic-stricken, felt that it was destined to be
the prey of the victors, while the people on the promenades
momentarily alternated between fear and hope, as they thought
they perceived, at the Grand' Porte, the blouses of insurgents
or the uniforms of soldiers. Never had a chief town, with
its tumble-down walls, been the scene of more agonising torture.

Towards two o'clock it was rumoured that the Coup d'etat
had failed ; that the prince-president was imprisoned at Vin-
cennes, and that Paris was in the hands of the most advanced
demagogy. It was reported that Marseilles, Toulon, Dra-
guignan, the entire South, belonged to the victorious insur-
rectionary arm3^ The insurgents would arrive in the evening
and put Plassans to the sword.

THE rOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 261

A deputation then repaired to the mayor's to expostulate with
the Municipal Commission for closing* the gates, whereby they
would only irritate the insurgents. Rougon, who was losing
his head, defended his order with his last strength. This
locking of the gates seemed to him one of the most ingenious
acts of his administration ; he advanced the most convincing
arguments in its justification. But they embarrassed him
by their questions, asking' him where were the soldiers and
the regiment which he had promised. Then he began to
lie, and told them flatly that he had promised nothing
at all. The non-appearance of this legendary regiment,
which the inhabitants longed for with such eagerness as to
dream of its arrival, was the chief cause of the panic. The well-
informed people even indicated the exact spot in the high road
where the soldiers had been butchered. At four o'clock,
Rougon, followed by Granoux, repaired to the Yalqueyras
mansion. Small bands, on their way to join the insurgents at
Orcheres, still continued to pass along in the distance, through
the valley of the Viorne. Throughout the day the urchins climbed
on to the ramparts, and the citizens came to look through the
loopholes. These volunteer sentinels kept the town in a state
of terror as they counted aloud the marching bands, which
were taken for so many strong battalions. The timorous popula-
tion fancied it was viewing from the battlements the prepara-
tions for some universal massacre. At dusk, as on the previous
evening, the panic grew stronger.

On returning to the mayor's, Rougon and his inseparable
companion, Granoux, recognised that the situation was becoming
intolerable. During their absence another member of the Com-
mission had disappeared. They were not more than four now.
They felt that they were making themselves ridiculous by stay-
ing there for hours looking at each other's pale countenances,
without saying a word. Moreover, they were terribly afraid to
spend a second night on the terrace of the Valqueyras mansion.

Rougon gravely declared that, the situation of affairs being
unchanged, there was no need for them to continue to remain
there. If anything serious occurred, information would be
sent to them. And, by a decision duly taken in council, he
deputed to Roudier the carrying on of the administration.
Poor Roudier, who bore in mind that he had served as a national
guard in Paris under Louis-Philippe, kept a conscientious
watch at the Grand' Porte.

R

2G2 THE FOETUNE OF THE BOUGONS.

Rougon went home looking- very downcast, creeping along
under the shadows of the houses. He felt that Plassans was
becoming hostile to him. He heard his name bandied about
amongst the groups, amidst expressions of anger and con-
tempt. He walked upstairs, reeling and perspiring. Fehcite
received him with speechless consternation. She, too, was
beginning to despair. Their dreams were being completely
shattered. They stood silently there, face to face, in the yellow
drawing-room. The day was drawing to a close, a murky
winter day which gave a muddy tint to the orange-colom^ed
paper with its large flower patterns ; never had the room
looked more faded, more mean, more shabby. And at this hour
they were alone ; they no longer had, as on the previous evening,
a crowd of courtiers congratulating them. A single day had
sufficed to topple them over, at the very moment when they
were proclaiming their victory. If the situation did not change
on the morrow their game was lost. Felicite who, when
gazing on the previous evening at the ruins of the yellow
drawing-room, thought of the plains of Austerlitz, now recalled
the accursed field of Waterloo as she observed the mournful
and deserted aspect of the room.

Then, as her husband said nothing, she went mechanically
to the window — to that window where she had inhaled with
delight the incense of the entire town. She perceived numerous
groups below in the Place, but she closed the blinds as she
saw some heads turned towards their house, fearing she
would be hooted. She felt quite sure that they were speaking
about them.

Voices rose through the twilight. A lawyer was clamour-
ing in the tone of a triumphant pleader.

"That's just what I said; the insurgents left of their own
accord, and they will not ask the permission of the forty-one
to return. The forty-one indeed! a fine farce! Why, I
believe there were at least two hundred-"

" No, indeed," said a burly trader, an oil-dealer and a great
politician, " there were probably not even ten. There was no
fighting, else we should have seen blood in the morning. I
went to the mayor's myself to see; the courtyard was as
clean as my hand."

A workman, who stepped timidly up to the group, added :

" There was no need of any violence to seize the building ;
the door was not even shut,"

THE FOETUNE OF THE BOUGONS, 2G3

This Speech was received with laughter, and the workman,
finding- himself encouraged, continued :

"As for those Kougons, everybody knows they aren't up
to much."

This insult pierced Felicite to the heart. The ingratitude
of the people was heartrending to her, for she herself was
at last coming to believe in the mission of the Rougons. She
called to her husband. She wanted him to take a lesson from
the fickleness of the people.

" It's all of a piece with their mirror," continued the lawyer.
" What a fuss they made about that broken glass ! You know
that Rougon is quite capable of having fired a gun at it to make
believe there was a battle going on."

Pierre suppressed a cry of pain. What ! they did not even
believe in his mirror now ! They would very soon go so far
as to assert that he had not heard a ball whiz past his ear.
The legend of the Rougons would be effaced ; nothing would
remain of their glory. But his torture was not at an end yet.
The groups manifested their hostility as heartily as they had
displayed their approval on the previous evening. A retired
hatter, an old man seventy years of age, whose factory was
formerly in the Faubourg, ferreted out the Rougons' past his-
tory. He spoke vaguely, with the hesitation of a wandering
memory, of the Fouques' property, of Adelaide, and of her
amours with a smuggler. He said just enough to give a fresh
start to the gossip. The tattlers drew near ; the words
"rogues," "thieves," "shameless intriguers," ascended to the
shutter behind which Pierre and Felicite were perspiring with
fear and indignation. They went so far as to even pity Mac-
quart. This was the final blow. Yesterday Rougon was a
Brutus, a stoic soul sacrificing his own affections to his country;
to-day he was nothing but an ambitious villain, who felled his
brother to the ground and made use of him as a stepping-stone
to fortune.

" Listen, listen," Pierre murmured in a stifled voice. " Ah !
the scoundrels, they are killing us ; we shall never retrieve
ourselves."

Felicite, enraged, beat a tattoo with her shrivelled fingers
as she replied :

" Let them talk. If we again get the upper hand, they
shall see what stuff I'm made of. I know where the blow
comes from. The new town hates us."

264 THE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

/

/ She guessed right. The sudden unpopularity of the Rougons

was the work of a group of lawyers who were very much
annoyed at the importance acquired by an old illiterate oil-
dealer, whose house had been on the verge of bankruptcy.
The Saint-Marc quarter had shown no sign of life for the last
two days. The inhabitants of the old quarter and the new
town were alone visible. The latter had taken advantage of
the panic to injure the yellow drawing-room in the minds of
the tradespeople and working-men. Roudier and Granoux,
they said, were excellent men, honourable citizens, who were
being led away by the Rougons' intrigues. Their eyes should
be opened to the fact. Ought not Monsieur Isidore Granoux to
be seated in the mayor's arm-chair, in the place of that big barrel-
bellied beggar who had not a sou to bless himself with ? The
envious folk took this as a point of departure to reproach
Rougon for all the acts of his administration, which only dated
from the previous evening. He had no right to preserve the
former Municipal Council ; he had committed a grave folly
in ordering the gates to be closed; it was through his stupidity
that five members had contracted an inflammation of the lungs
on the terrace of the Valqueyras mansion. There was no end
to his faults. The republicans likewise raised their heads.
They talked of a possible sudden attack upon the town-hall by
the workmen of the Faubourg. The reaction was in its death-
agony.

Pierre, in this overthrow of all his hopes, began to turn
over in his mind upon what support he could still reckon if
occasion should require.

*' Wasn't Aristide to come this evening," he asked, " to make
it up with us ? "

" Yes," Felicite answered. " He promised me a good
article. The ' Independant' has not appeared yet "

But her husband interrupted her, crying- :

"See! isn't it he who is just going out of the Sub-
Prefecture ? "

The old woman glanced in that direction.

" He's got his arm in a sling again ! " she cried.

Aristide had indeed got his hand wrapped up in his silk
handkerchief again. The Empire was breaking up, but the
Republic was not yet triumphant, and he judged it prudent to
resume the role of a disabled man. He crossed the Place
stealthily, without raising his head, when, hearing unmistak-»

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 2G5

ably daugerous and compromising* words among the groups,
be quickly disappeared at the corner of the Rue de la Banne.
" Bah ! he won't come up," Felicite said, bitterly. " It's
all up with us. Even our children forsake us ! "

She shut the window violently, in order not to see or hear
anything more. When she had lit the lamp, they sat down to
dine, disheartened and without appetite, leaving the food on
their plates. They only had a few hours to settle upon a
decisive step. It was absolutely indispensable that before
daybreak Plassans should be at their feet beseeching forgive-
ness, if they did not want to entirely renounce the fortune for
which they had dreamed of. The total absence of any reliable
news was the sole cause of their anxious indecision. Felicite,
with her clear intellect, quickly perceived the difficulties in
their way. If they had been able to learn the result of the
Coup d'fitat, they would have faced it out and still pursued
their role of deliverers, or they would have made haste to wipe
out all recollection of their miserable campaign. But they had
no precise information ; they were losing their heads ; the
thought that they were thus risking their fortune on a throw,
in complete ignorance of events, brought a cold perspiration
to their brows.

" And why the devil doesn't Eugene write to me ? " Rougon
cried, in an outburst of despair, forgetting that he was betray-
ing the secret of his correspondence to his wife.

But Felicite pretended not to have heard. Her husband's
exclamation had profoundly affected her. Why, indeed,
did Eugene not write to his father ? After having kept him
so accurately informed of the successes of the Bonapartist
cause, he should at least have hastened to announce the
triumph or defeat of Prince Louis to them. Mere prudence
would have counselled the communication of such a piece of
information. If he was silent, it must certainly be owing to
the fact that the victorious Republic had sent him to join the
pretender in the dungeons of Vincennes. Felicite felt herself
chilled to the marrow ; her son's silence destroyed her last hopes.

At that moment somebody brought up the .*' Gazette," which
had only just appeared.

"Ah! "said Pierre, with surprise, *' Vuillet has issued his
paper ! "

He tore off the wrapper, read the leading article, and
finished it as white as a sheet, almost falling off his chair.

266 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

*' Here, read," he resumed, handing" the paper to Felicite.

It was a magnificent article, attacking the insurgents with
tremendous violence. Never had such stinging bitterness, so
many falsehoods, such bigoted abuse flowed from pen before.
Vuillet commenced by narrating the entry of the contingent
into Plassaus. The description was a perfect masterpiece.
He spoke of '' those bandits, those hang-dog looking counte-
nances, that scum of the galleys," invading the town, "intoxi-
cated with brandy, lust, and pillage." Then he exhibited them
" parading their cynicism in the streets, terrif^dng the populace
with their savage cries, seeking only violence and murder."
Further on the scene at the town-hall and the arrest of
the authorities were turned into a drama of hideous cruelty :
" Then they seized the most respectable people by the throat;
and the mayor, the brave commander of the national guard, the
postmaster, that kindly functionar}-, were crowned with thorns,
like Jesus, by those wretches, who spat in their faces." The
passage devoted to Miette and her red pelisse seemed positively
inspired, Vuillet had seen ten, twenty girls steeped in blood :
" And who had not seen, in the midst of these monsters, some
infamous creatures clothed in red, who had bathed themselves
in the blood of the martyrs murdered by these brigands along
the high roads? They were brandishing banners, abandon-
ing themselves, in the open cross-ways, to the vile caresses of
the entire horde." And Vuillet added, with Biblical mag-
niloquence, "The Republic ever marches between prostitution
and murder." That was only the first part of the article ; the
narrative brought to a close, the editor asked, in a virulent
peroration, if the country would permit any longer " the shame-
lessness of those wild beasts, who respected neither property nor
person." It made an appeal to all valorous citizens, declaring
that to tolerate such things any longer would be to encourage
them, and that the insurgents would then come and snatch " the
daughter from her mother's arms, the wife from her husband's
embraces." At last, after a pious sentence in which he declared
that God willed the extermination of the wicked, he concluded
with this trumpet-blast : " It is asserted that these wretches are
once more at our gates ; well, let each one of us take a gun
and shoot them like dogs. I shall be seen in the front rank,
happy to rid the earth of such vermin."

This article, in which the dulness of provincial journalism
was interspersed with a string of periphrastic abuse, quite

l^HE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 267

temfied Rougon, who muttered, as Felicite placed the " Gazette"
on the table :

"Ah! the wretch ! he is giving us the last blow; people
will believe that I have inspired this diatribe."

" But," his wife remarked, pensively, " did you not this
morning tell me that he absolutely refused to write against the
republicans ? The news, you said, had terrified him, and you
told me that he was as pale as death."

" Yes ! yes ! I can't understand it at all. When I insisted,
he went so far as to reproach me for not having killed all the
insurgents. It was yesterday that he ought to have written
his article ; to-day, he'll get us all butchered ! "

Felicite was completely lost in amazement. What had
prompted Yuillet ? The image of this wretched individual, gun
in hand, firing on the ramparts of Plassans, seemed to her one of
the most ridiculous things imaginable. There was certainly
some determining cause underlying this which escaped her.
Yuillet was too impudent in his abuse, too ready with his
valour, for the insurrectionary band to be really so near the
gates of the town.

" He's a spiteful fellow, I always said so," Rougon re-
sumed, after reading the article over again. *' He has only been
waiting for an opportunity to do us this injury. What a fool
I was to leave him in charge of the post-ofiice ! "

This was a flash of light. Felicite started up quickly, as
though enlightened by a sudden thought; she put on a cap
and threw a shawl over her shoulders.

"Where are you going, pray?" her husband asked with
surprise. " It's past nine o'clock."

" You go to bed," she replied rather brusquely. " You're
not well ; go and rest yourself. Sleep on till I come back ;
I'll wake you if necessary, and then we can talk the matter
over."

She went out with her nimble gait, ran to the post-ofiice,
and abruptly entered the ofiice where Yuillet was still at work.
On her appearance he made a hasty gesture of vexation.

Never in his life had Yuillet been so happy. Since he had been
able to slip his little fingers into the correspondence, he enjoyed
the most exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest
preparing to relish the confessions of his penitents. All the
sneaking indiscretions, all the confused prattle of the vestries,
sung in his ears. He dived his long, pale nose into the letters,

268 THE FORTUNE OF THE liOUGONS.

gazed amorously at the superscriptions with his squinting eyes,
he sounded the envelopes, like the little abbe's examine the
souls of maidens. They were never-ending pleasures, sweet
enticing temptations for him. The thousand secrets of Plassans
la}'' there. He held in his hand the honour of the women, the
fortunes of the men, and he had only to break a seal to know as
much about it as the vicar at the grand cathedral, the confidant of
all the better people of the town. Vuillet was one of those terribly
bitter and reserved gossips, who know everything and worm
out everything, without ever repeating what they hear, except
when the chance of dealing a mortal blow offers itself. He had,
consequently, often longed to dip his arm elbow deep into the
public letter-box. Since the previous evening the post-master's
office had become, for him, a big confessional full of darkness
and sacred mystery, in which he grew faint as he inhaled the
hushed murmurs and the trembling confessions which the
letters seemed to exhale. JVloreover, the bookseller carried
on his work with consummate impudence. The crisis
through which the country was passing secured him perfect
impunity. If some letters were delayed, or others miscarried
altogether, it would be the fault of those republican villains,
who were scouring the country and interrupting all com-
munication. The closing of the gates had vexed him at first ;
but he had come to an understanding with Roudier, whereby
the couriers were allowed to enter and bring the mails direct
to him, without passing by the maj^or's.

As a matter of fact he had only opened a few letters, the
important ones, those in which his keen sexton's scent had
discovered some information which it would be useful for him
to know before anybody else. He then contented himself by
locking up in a drawer, for delivery later od, such letters as
might give information and rob him of the merit of his valour
at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear. This
pious personage, in selecting the management of the post-
office, displayed a singular appreciation of the situation.

When Madame Rougon entered, he was taking his choice
of a heap of letters and papers, under the pretext of classify-
ing them. He rose, with his humble smile, and offered her a
seat ; his reddened eyes blinked rather uneasily. But Felicite
did not sit down ; she said roughly :

" I want the letter."

Yuillet opened his eyes wide, with an air of perfect innocence.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 2G9

*♦ What letter, madame ? " he asked.

*' The letter you received this morning for my husband.
Come, Monsieur Vuillet, I'm in a hurry."

And as he stammered that he did not know, that he had not
seen anything-, that it was very strange, Felicite continued, in
a low, menacing voice :

" A letter from Paris, from my son Eugene ; you know
what I mean, don't you ? I'll look for it myself."

She pretended to dip her hand into the various packets
which encumbered the writing table. Thereupon he bestirred
himself, and said he would go and see. The service was
necessarily in great disorder ! Perhaps, indeed, there might
be a letter. In that case they would find it. But, as far as
he was concerned, he swore he had not seen it. As he was
speaking he moved about the ofiSce turning over all the papers.
Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios. Felicite
waited, quite calm and collected.

" Yes, indeed, you're right, here's a letter for you," he
cried at last, as he took out several papers from a portfolio.
" Ah ! these confounded clerks, they take advantage of the
situation to do nothing' in the proper way."

Fehcite took the letter and examined the seal attentivel}',
apparently quite regardless of the fact that such scrutiny
might wound Yuillet's susceptibilities. She clearly perceived
that somebody must have opened the envelope ; the book-
seller, in his unskilfulness, had used some sealing wax of a
darker colour to fasten it up again, She took care to tear
the envelope open in such a manner as to preserve the seal
intact, to serve as a proof at the proper time. Eugene an-
nounced in a few words the complete success of the Coup d'Etat,
and proclaimed a victory. Paris was subdued, the provinces
were quiescent, and he counselled his parents to maintain a very
firm attitude in the face of the partial insurrection which was
agitating the South. He told them, in conclusion, that the
foundation of their fortune was laid, if they did not give way
to weakness.

Madame Rougon put the letter in her pocket, and sat
down slowly, looking into Vuillet's face. The latter, as though
very busy, had resumed his sorting in a feverish manner.

'* Listen to me, Monsieur Vuillet," she said to him.

And when he had raised his head :

" Let us play our cards openly ; you are wrong to betray

270 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

us ; some misfortune may^befall 3'ou. If, instead of unsealing
our letters "

He protested, and pretended to be indignant. But slie
continued calmly :

" I know, I know your school, you never confess. Come,
don't let us waste any more words, what interest have you in
favouring the Coup d'^fetat ? "

And, as he continued to assert his perfect honesty, she at
last lost her patience.

" You take me for a fool ! " she cried. " I've read your
article. You would do much better to act in concert with us."

Thereupon, without avowing anything', he flatly admitted
that he wanted to have the custom of the college. Formerly
it was he who supplied the establishment with classical books.
But it had become known that he sold obscene literature
clandestinely to the pupils in such a large quantity that the
desks were full of indecent pictures and books. For that
reason he was very near being brought up for misdemeanour.
Since that time, he had longed with a jealous passion to secure
the good-will of the directors again.

Felicite was surprised at his modest ambition, and told him
so. To open letters and risk the galleys just for the sake
of selling a few dictionaries !

" Eh ! " he said in a shrill voice, "it's an assured sale of
four or five thousand francs a year. I don't aspire to impossi-
bilities like some people."

She did not take any notice of what he said. No more
was said about his opening the letters. A treaty of alliance
was concluded, by which Vuillet engaged not to circulate
any news nor take any step in advance, on condition that
the Rougons should secure him the custom of the college.
As she was leaving, Felicite advised him not to compromise
himself any further. It would be sufficient if he detained the
letters and did not distribute them till the day after the morrow.

"What a knave!" she muttered, when she was in the
street, forgetting that she herself had just laid an interdict
upon the mail.

She went home slowly, wrapped in thought. She even
went out of her way, passing along the Cours Sauvaire, as if to
gain time and ease for reflection before going in. Under the trees
of the promenade she met Monsieur de Carnavant, who was tak-
ing advantage of the night to ferret about the town without com-

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 271

promisiiio: himself. The clergy of Plassans, to whom energetic
action was distasteful, had, since the commencement of the
Coup d'Etat, preserved an absolute neutrality. For them the
Empire was established, and they awaited the opportunity of
resuming- in some new direction their secular intrigues. The
marquis, henceforth a useless agent, had only one curiosity —
to know how the affray would terminate, and in what manner
the Eougons would carry their role through to the end.

"Is it you, little one ? " he said, as he recognised Fehcite.
"I wanted to go and see you; your affairs are becoming
embroiled."

" Oh, no, everything is going on all right," she replied,
somewhat preoccupied.

" So much the better. You'll tell me all about it, won't
you ? Ah ! I must confess I frightened your husband and
his colleagues terribly the other night. You should have seen
how comic they looked on the terrace, while I was pointing
out to them a band of insurgents in every cluster of trees in
the valley ! You forgive me ? "

" I'm much obliged to you," Felicite said, pertly. " You
should have made them die of fright. My husband is so
awfully jealous. Come and see me some morning, when I am
alone."

She stole off, walking rapidly, as though her encounter
with the marquis had determined her. All her little figure be-
tokened an implacable resolution. At last she was going to
revenge herself for Pierre's little mysteries, to have him under
her heel, and secure, once for all, her omnipotence at home.
There would be a fine scene, quite a comedy, indeed, whose
points she was already enjoying in anticipation, while she
worked out its details with all the elaboration of an injured
woman.

She found Pierre in bed, sleeping heavily ; she brought the
candle near for an instant, and gazed, with an air of pity, at
his big face, disturbed now and again .by slight twitches ; then
she sat down at the head of the bed, took off her cap, let her
hair fall loose, assumed the appearance of one in despair, and
commenced to sob quite loudly.

" Hallo ! what's the matter ? What are you crying for ? "
Pierre asked, waking up suddenly.

She did not reply, but cried more bitterly.

" I say, do answer," continued her husband, frightened by

272 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGOKS.

this mute despair. " Where have you been ? Have you seen
the insurg-ents ? "

She made a negative sign : then, in a hushed voice:

" I've just come from the Valqueyras mansion," she mur-
mured. " I wanted to ask Monsieur de Carnavant's advice. Ah!
my dear, all is lost."

Pierre sat up in bed, very pale. His bull neck, which his
unbuttoned night-shirt exposed to view, and his soft skin, were
puckered with terror. He sank back, pale and weeping,
in the middle of the untidy bed, looking like a grotesque
Chinese figure.

" The marquis," Felicite continued, " thinks that Prince
Louis has succumbed. We are ruined ; we shall never get a
sou."

Thereupon, as often happens with cowards, Pierre flew into
a rage. It was the fault of the marquis, it was his wife's
fault, the fault of all his family. Did he ever think of politics
at all, until Monsieur de Carnavant and Felicite had driven him to
these follies ?

" I wash my hands of it altogether," he cried. " It's you
two who have committed this error. Wasn't it better to go
on living on our little savings in peace and quietness ? But
you were alwaj^s determined to have your own way. You see
what it has brought us to."

He was losing his head completely, and forgot that he
had shown himself as eager as his wife. He felt only a great
desire to find a vent for his anger, by laying the blame of his
ruin upon others.

" And, moreover," he continued, " could we ever have
succeeded with children like ours ? Eugene abandons us just
at the critical moment ; Aristide has dragged us through the
mire, and even that big simpleton Pascal is compromising us
with his philanthropic practising among the insurgents. And
to think that we have brought ourselves to poverty in order to
give them an opportunity of airing their humanity ! "

In his exasperation, he employed words which he had never
used before. Felicite, seeing that he was taking breath, said
to him softly :

" You are forgetting Macquart.'*

'' Ah ! yes ; I am forgetting him," he resumed more
violently; "there's another of them, the thought of whom
makes me lose my temper! But that's not all; you know

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 273

little Silvere. I saw him at my mother's the other evening*
with his hands covered with blood. He has put some gen-
darme's eye out. I did not tell ^'ou anything about it, in
order not to frighten j'ou. You'll see one of my nephews in
the Assize Court. Ah ! what a family ! As for Macquart, he
has annoyed us to such an extent that I felt inclined to break
his head for him the other da}'- when I had my gun. Yes, I
had a mind to do it."

Felicite let the storm pass over. She had received her
husband's reproaches with an angelic sweetness, bowing her
head like a culprit, whereby she was able to smile in her sleeve.
Her demeanour provoked and maddened Pierre. AYhen speech
failed the poor man, she heaved deep sighs, feigning repent-
ance. Then she repeated in a disconsolate voice :

" Whatever shall we do ! whatever shall we do ! AYe are
over head and ears in debt."

''It's your fault!" Pierre cried, with his last remaining
strength.

The Kougons, in fact, owed money on all sides. The hope
of an approaching success had made them neglect all prudence.
Since the beginning of 1851, they had gone so far as to hand
round, every evening, to the frequenters of the yellow drawing-
room, glasses of syrup and punch, little cakes, complete colla-
tions in fact, during which they drank to the death of the
Republic. Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter of his
capital at the disposal of the reactionary party, to contribute
towards the purchase of guns and cartridges.

" Tlie pastry-cook's bill is more than a thousand francs,"
Felicite resumed, in her sweetest tone, " and we owe probably
twice as much to the liqueur-dealer. Then there's the butcher,
the baker, the greengrocer "

Pierre was in agony. Felicite struck him the last blow by
adding:

" I say nothing of the ten thousand francs you gave for
the arms."

" I, I ! " he faltered, "but I was deceived, I was robbed !
It's that idiot Sicardot who put me in for that, swearing that
the Napoleonists would be triumphant. I thought I was
only making an advance. But this old dolt will have to repay
me my money."

" Ah ! 3'ou won't get anything back," his wife said, shrug-
ging her shoulders, " ^Ye shall suffer the fate of war. When

/A.

274 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

we have paid off everything", we shall not have enough to buy
bread with. Ah ! it's been a fine campaig"n. We can now go
and live in some hovel in the old quarter."

This last phrase had a mournful sound. It seemed to ring
out the knell of their existence. Pierre saw the hovel in the
old quarter, the vision of which had just been conjured up by
Felicite. There, then, he would have to go and die on a
pallet, after having striven all his life for the enjoyment of
ease and luxury. In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped
his hands in the foulest intrigues, and lied for many a long
year. The Empire would not pay his debts — that Empire
which alone could save him. He jumped out of bed in his
night-shirt, crying :

" No ; I'll take my gun ; I would rather let the insurgents
kill me."

"Well!" Felicite rejoined, with great composure, ''you
can have that done to-morrow or the da}- after ; the republi-
cans are not very far. That way will do as well as anything
to make an end of matters."

Pierre felt a cold chill run through him. It seemed as if,
all of a sudden, some one had poured a large pail of cold water
over his shoulders. He got into bed again slowly, and when
he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry.
This stout man easily burst into tears — gently flowing, inex-
haustible tears — which streamed out of his eyes without any
effort. There was a terrible reaction going on within him.
His wrath threw him into a state of forlornness, in which he
cried like a child. Felicite, who was waiting for this crisis,
was delighted to see him so tractable, so resourceless, and so
humbled before her. She preserved her silent attitude, and
her appearance of distressed humility. After a long pause,
this resignation, the spectacle of this woman plunged into
silent dejection, deepened Pierre's grief.

"But do say something ! " he implored; "let us consider
affairs together. Is there really no hope left to us ? "

" None, you know very well," she replied ; " you
explained the situation yourself just now; we have no help
to expect from any one ; even our children have betrayed
us."

" Let us fly, then. Shall we leave Plassans to-night,
immediately ? "

" Fly! why, my dear, to-morrow we should be the talk of

I

I

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 275

the whole town. Don't you remember, too, that you have had
the gates closed ? "

There was a violent struggle going on within Pierre. His
mind was wrought up to an extraordinary pitch ; at last, as
though he felt himself vanquished, he murmured, iu suppli-
cating tones :

" I beseech you, do try to think of something; you haven't
said anything yet."

Felicite raised her head, feigning surprise; and with a
gesture of profound impotence :

" I am a fool in these matters," she said ; "I don't under-
stand anything about politics, you've told me so a hundred times."

And then, as her husband held his tongue in his embarrass-
ment, and lowered his eyes, she continued slowly, but not
reproachfully :

" You have not kept me informed of your affairs, have
you ? I know nothing at all about them, I can't even give
you any advice. It was quite right of you, though ; women
chatter sometimes, and it is a thousand times better for the
men to steer the ship alone."

She said this with such refined irony that her husband
did not perceive the bitterness of her raillery. He simply
felt a great remorse. And, all of a sudden, he burst out into
a confession. He spoke of Eugene's letters, explained his
plans, his conduct, with all the loquacity of a man who is
examining his conscience and imploring a saviour. At every
moment he interrupted himself to ask : " What would you
have done in my place ? " or else he cried, " Isn't it so ? I was
right, I could not act otherwise." Felicite did not even deign
to make a sign. She listened with the cold reserve of a
judge. In reality she was enjoying the most exquisite plea-
sure ; she had got him fast at last, this cunning fellow ; she
played with him like a cat playing with a ball of paper, while
he held out his hands to be manacled by her.

" But wait," he said, jumping out of bed quickly, '* I'll
give you Eugene's correspondence to read. You can judge
the situation better then."

She tried in vain to hold him back by his night-shirt. He
spread out the letters on the table by the bed-side and then
got into bed again, and read whole pages of them and com-
pelled her to go through them herself. She suppressed a
smile, and commenced to feel pity for the poor man,

27G THE FOKTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

"Well," he said anxiously, when he had finished, *' now
you know everything. Do you see any means of saving us
from ruin ? "

She still gave no answer. She appeared to be pondering
deeply.

" You are an intelligent woman," he continued, in order to
flatter her, " I was wrong to keep any secret from you, I see
it now."

." Let us say nothing more about that," she replied. " In
my opinion, if you had enough courage "

And as he looked at her eagerly, she interrupted herself,
and said, with a smile :

" But you promise not to distrust me any more ? You will
tell me everything ? You will do nothing without consulting
me ? "

He swore and accepted the most rigid conditions. Felicite
then got into bed ; she felt cold and drew near him ; and in a
whisper, as if somebody might hear them, she explained at
length the plan of her campaign. In her opinion the town
must be allowed to fall into a still deeper state of panic, while
Pierre was to maintain an heroic attitude in the midst of the
terrified inhabitants. A secret presentiment, she said, warned
her that the insurgents were still at a distance. Moreover,
sooner or later, the party of order would carry the day, and
the Rougons would be rewarded. After the role of saviour,
that of martyr was not to be despised. She argued so well,
she spoke with such conviction, that her husband, surprised at
first at the simplicity of her plans, which consisted in facing it
out, saw at last that it was a marvellous scheme, and promised
to conform to it with the greatest possible courage.

" And don't forget that it is I who am saving you," the old
woman murmured in a coaxing tone. " Will you be nice
to me ? "

They kissed each other and said good-night. It was a
resuscitation for these two old people, parched and dried up
w^ith covetousness. But neither of them slept ; after a quarter
of an hour Pierre, who was gazing at the round reflection of
the night-lamp on the ceiling, turned round, and in a faint
whisper told his wife of an idea that had just occurred to him.

" Oh ! no, no," Felicite murmured, with a shudder. *' That
would be too cruel."

" But," he resumed, " what you want is to spread conster^

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 277

nation among the inhabitants ! They would take me seriously,
if what I told you should occur."

Then, completing- his scheme, he cried :

" We might employ Macquart. That would be a means of
getting rid of him."

Felicite seemed to be struck with this idea. She reflected,
seemed to hesitate, and then, in a tone of distress, she faltered
out:

*' Perhaps you are right. We must see. After all, we
should be very stupid to be too scrupulous ; it's a matter of
life and death with us. Let me do it. I'll go to-morrow to
Macquart, and see if we can come to an understanding with
him. You would only wrangle and spoil all. Good night;
sleep well, my poor dear. Our troubles will soon be ended,
you'll see."

They kissed each other again and went to sleep. On the
ceiling the patch of light seemed to be assuming the shape of
a terrified eye, that stared wildly and fixedly on these pale,
slumbering folk, who were reeking with crime beneath their
very sheets, and who saw in their dreams a rain of blood fall-
ing in the room, whose big drops turned into golden pieces as
they plashed upon the floor.

On the morrow, before daylight, Felicite went to the
mayor's, armed with instructions from Pierre, to seek an inter-
view with Macquart. She took with her, wrapped up in a
towel, her husband's national guard uniform. She only saw a
few men fast asleep in the guard-house. The door-keeper,
who was ordered to supply Macquart with food, went upstairs
with her to open the door of the dressing-room, which had been
made to do duty as a cell. Then he went down again quietly.

Macquart had been shut up in the room for two days and
two nights. He had had time to indulge in lengthy reflec-
tions. After his sleep, the first hours were given up to anger
and impotent rage. He felt a great longing to break the door
open, as he thought of his brother strutting about in the
adjoining apartment. He resolved to strangle him with his
own hands, as soon as the insurgents returned and released
him. But in the evening, at twilight, he calmed down, and
gave over striding furiously round the little room. He in-
haled a sweet odour there, a feeling of comfort which relaxed
his nerves. Monsieur GarQonnet, who was very rich, fastidious,
and vain, had had this little room arranged in a very elegant

278 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

fashion ; the sofa was soft and warm ; scents, pomades, and
soaps adorned the marble washhand-stand, and the pale light
fell from the ceiling- with a soft glow, like the light of a lamp
suspended in an alcove. Macquart, in the midst of that per-
fumed atmosphere, close and soporific, which pervades a dress-
ing-room, fell asleep, thinking that these rich scoundrels '' were
very fortunate, all the same." He had covered himself with a
blanket which had been given to him. He stretched himself
out on the couch until morning, with his head and back and
arms reposing on the cushions. When he opened his eyes, a
streamlet of sunshine glided through the opening. He did not
leave the sofa. He felt warm, and lay thinking as he gazed
around him. He bethought himself that he would never again
have such a place to wash in. The washhand-stand particularly
interested him. It was not so bad after all, he thought, to
trim oneself up with so many pots and phials. It made him
think bitterly of his own life of privation. The idea occurred
to him that perhaps he had been on the wrong track. There is
nothing to be gained by associating with beggars. He ought
not to have played the scamp ; he should have acted in concert
with the Rougons.

Then he rejected this thought. The Rougons were
villains who had robbed him. But the warmth, the soft-
ness of the sofa, continued to soften his feelings, and to fill
him with vague regrets. After all, the insurgents were
abandoning him ; they were allowing themselves to be beaten
like idiots. He at last came to the conclusion that the Republic
was a delusion. Those Rougons were lucky. And he recalled
his" bootless wickedness, his underhand intrigues. Not one
member of the family had ever been on his side ; neither
Aristide, nor Silvere's brother, nor Silvere himself, who was
a fool to enter so enthusiastically into the cause of the
republicans, and would never do any good for himself.
Now his wife was dead, his children had left him, and
he would die alone like a dog in some miserable corner,
without a sou to bless himself with. Decidedly, he ought
to have sold himself to the reactionary part}^ As he reflected
thus, he eyed the washhand-stand, feeling a strong inclination
to go and wash his hands with a certain kind of soap contained
in a glass case. Macquart, like all lazy fellows who live upon
their wives or children, had foppish tastes. Although he wore
patched trousers, he liked to inundate himself with aromatic

THE FORTUNE OF THE BOUGONS.. 279

oil. He spent hours with his barber, who talked politics, and
began a fresh discussion after every stroke of the comb. The
temptation was becoming* too strong, and Macquart got up
and stood before the washhand-stand. He washed his hands
and face, dressed his hair, perfumed himself, and went through
a complete toilet. He used all the bottles, all the soap and
powders ; but his greatest pleasure was to dry his hands with
the mayor's towels, they were so soft and thick. He buried
his wet face into them, and inhaled, with delight, all the odour
of Vv'ealth. Then, when he had pomaded himself, and felt
refreshed from head to toe, he went back and stretched himself
on the sofa, feeling quite youthful again, and disposed to
conciliatory thoughts. He felt greater contempt for the
Eepublic since he had dipped his nose into Monsieur Gar9onnet's
phials. The idea occurred to him that there was, perhaps, still
time to make peace with his brother. Pie reflected what he
could ask in return for playing traitor. His rancour against
the Ptougons still gnawed at his heart ; but he was in one of
those moods when, Ij'ing on one's back in silence, one is apt
to admit stern realities, and scold oneself for neglecting to
feather a comfortable nest wherein to wallow in slothful ease
of mind and body, even at the cost of giving up one's most
cherished animosities. Towards evening, Antoine determined
to send for his brother on the following day. But when he
saw Fehcite enter in the morning he understood that his aid
was wanted, so he stood on his guard.

The negotiation was long, full of treachery, and conducted
with infinite skill. At first they indulged in vague complaints,
then Felicite, who was surprised to find Macquart almost
polite, after the violent manner in which he had behaved at
her house on the Sunday evening, assumed a tone of gentle
reproach towards him. She deplored the hatred which severed
their families. But, in truth, he had so calumniated his brother,
and manifested towards him such a bitter animosity that he
had made poor Rougon quite lose his head.

" Zounds! my brother has never behaved like a brother to
me," Macquart said, with suppressed violence. " Has he ever
given me any assistance ? He would have let me die in my
hovel. When he was kind towards me, you remember, at the
time he gave me two hundred francs, I am sure no one can re-
proach me with having said a single unpleasant word about him.
I said everywhere that he was a very good-hearted fellow."

280 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

This clearly signified :

*' If 3^ou had continued to supply me with money, I should
have been very pleasant towards you, I would have helped
you, instead of fighting against you. It's your own fault.
You ought to have bought me."

Felicite understood him so well that she replied :

" I know j-ou have accused us of being hard upon you,
because people imagine we are in comfortable circumstances ;
but they are mistaken, my dear brother : we are poor people ;
we have never been able to act towards you as our heart would
have desired."

She hesitated a moment and then continued :

" If it were absolutely necessary in some serious contingency,
we might be able to make a sacrifice ; but, truly, we are very
poor, very poor ! "

Macquart pricked up his ears. " I have them ! " he thought.
Then, without appearing to understand his sister-in-law's in-
direct offer, he detailed the wretchedness of his life in a dole-
ful manner, and spoke of the death of his wife and his children's
flight. Felicite, on her side, referred to the crisis through
which the country was passing, and declared that the Re-
public had completely ruined them. Then she went on to
bemoan the exigencies of a situation which compelled one
brother to imprison another. How their hearts would bleed i-f
justice would not release its prey ! And she let slip the word
" galleys ! "

" Bah ! I defy you," Macquart said calmly.

But she exclaimed :

*' I would rather reedem the honour of the family with my
own blood. I tell you all this to show you that we shall not
abandon you. I come to give you the means of effecting your
escape, my dear Antoine."

They gazed at each other for a moment, sounding each
other with a look, before engaging in the contest.

" Unconditionally?" he asked at length.

'' Without any condition," she replied.

She sat down beside him on the sofa, and continued in a
determined voice ;

" And even, before passing the frontier, if you want to earn
a thousand-franc note, I can put you in the way of doing so."

There was another silence.

" If it's all above board I shall have no objection," Antoine

THE FOETUXE OF THE EOUGONS. 281

muttered, apparently reflecting*. " You know I don't want to
mix myself up with 3'our underhand dealings."

" But there are no underhand dealings about it," Felicite
resumed, smiling at the old rascal's scruples. " Nothing can
be simpler : you will leave this room presently, and go and
conceal j^ourself in your mother's house, and this evening 3'ou
can assemble your friends and come and seize the ma^'or's office
again."

Macquart could not conceal his extreme surprise. He did
not understand it at all.

" I thought," he said, " that you were victorious."

" Oh ! I haven't got time now to tell you all about it," the
old woman replied, somewhat impatiently. " Do you accept or
not?"

" Well, no, I don't accept — I want to consider. For a
thousand francs I should be very stupid to risk a possible
fortune."

Felicite rose.

" Just as 5'ou like, my dear fellow," she said, coldly. " You
don't seem to realise the position you are in. You came to my
house and treated me as though I were a mere outcast ; and then
when I am kind enough to hold out a hand to you in the hole
into which you have been stupid enough to let yourself fall,
you stand on ceremony, and refuse to be rescued. "Well then,
stay here, wait till the authorities come back. As for me, I
wash my hands of the whole business."

She had reached the door.

"But," he implored, "give me some explanations. I can't
strike a bargain with you in perfect ignorance. For two days
past I have been quite in the dark as to what's going on.
IIow do I know that you are not cheating me?"

" Bah ! you're a simpleton," replied Felicite, who had
retraced her steps at Antoine's doleful appeal. " You are very
foolish not to trust yourself implicitly to us. A thousand
francs ! that's a fine sum, a sum that one would only risk in a
winning cause. 1 advise you to accept."

lie still hesitated.

" But when we want to seize this place, shall we be allowed
to enter quietly ? "

" Ah ! I don't know," she said with a smile. " There will
perhaps be a shot or two fired."

He looked at her fixedly.

282 THE FORTUNE OE THE ROUGONS.

''Well, but tell me now, little woman," he resumed in a
hoarse voice, " you don't intend, do you, to have a ball lodged
in my head ? "

Felicite blushed. She was, in fact, just thinking* that, during
the attack on the building, it would be possible for a bullet to
render them a great service in ridding them of Antoine. It
would be a gain of a thousand francs, too. She got angry as
she muttered :

" What an idea ! Really, it's abominable to think such
things ! "

Then suddenly calming down, she added ;

" Do you accept ? You understand now, don't you ? "

Macquart had understood perfectly. It was an ambush that
they were proposing to him. He did not perceive the reasons
nor the consequences of it, and that was what induced him to
haggle. After having spoken of the Republic as though it
were a mistress he could not forsake without a keen pang of
grief, he brought forward the risks which he would have to
run, and finished by asking for two thousand francs. But
Felicite stuck to her original offer. They debated until she
promised to procure him, on his return to France, a place where
he would have nothing to do, and which would pay him well.
The bargain was then concluded. She made him don the
uniform of a national guard which she had brought with her.
lie was to betake himself quietly to aunt Dide's, and afterwards,
towards midnight, he was to assemble in the neighbourhood of
the town-hall all the republicans he should meet, telling them
that the mayor's office was unguarded and that they had only got
to push open the door to take possession of it. Antoine demanded
earnest mone}^ and received two hundred francs. She under-
took to pay him the remaining eight hundred francs on the
following day. The Rougons were risking the last sous they
had at their disposal.

When FeHcite had gone downstairs, she remained in the
Place for a moment to watch Macquart go out. He passed the
guard-house quietly, blowing his nose. He had broken the
skylight in the room, to make it appear that he had escaped
that way.

" It's all arranged," Felicite said to her husband, when she
went home. " It will be at midnight. It doesn't matter to
me at all now. I should like to see them all shot. How they
slandered us yesterday in the street ! "

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 283

'' It was very good of you to hesitate," replied Pierre, who
was shaving-. " Every one would do the same in our place."

On that morning- — it was Wednesday — he was particularly
careful about his toilet. His wife combed his hair and tied
his cravat. She turned him about like a child going to a
distribution of prizes. Then, when he was ready, she examined
him, declared he looked very nice, and that he would make
a very good figure in the midst of the serious events that
were preparing. His big pale face wore an air of grave
dignity and heroic determination. She accompanied him to
the first landing, giving him her last recommendations : he
was not to abandon his courageous attitude, however great
the panic should be ; he was to close the gates more hermeti-
cally than ever, leave the town in agonies of terror within its
ramparts ; and it would be excellent if he were to appear the
only one willing to die for the cause of order.

What a day ! The Rougons still speak of it as though it
were a glorious and decisive battle. Pierre went straight
to the mayor's, heedless of the looks or words which ho
encountered on his way. He installed himself there magis-
terially, like a man who does not intend to quit the place
again. He simply sent a note to Roudier, to advise him that
he was resuming authority.

" Keep watch at the gates," he said, knowing that these
lines might become public : " I myself shall watch over the
interior, and maintain the security of life and property. It is
just at the moment when evil passions reappear and prevail
that good citizens should endeavour to stifle them, even at the
peril of their lives." The style and the very errors of expres-
sion, combined with its antique laconism, gave to this note an
appearance of greater heroism. Not one of the gentlemen of the
Provisional Commission put in an appearance. The two who
were the last to waver in their fidelity, Granoux himself even,
prudently remained at home.

Rougon was the only member of the Commission who
remained at his post, in his presidential arm-chair, while all the
others had vanished as the panic spread with greater violence.
He did not even deign to issue an order summoning them to
attend. He was there, and that was sufficient. A sublime
spectacle, which a local journal depicted later on in a word :
" courage giving the hand to duty."

During the whole morning Pierre was seen animating the

284 THE FOHTtJNE OF THE EOUGONS.

building with bis going's and comings. He was absolutely alone
in this large, empty place, whose lofty halls re-echoed with
the noise of his heels. All the doors were left open. He
made an ostentatious show of his presidency over a non-existent
council in the middle of this desert, and appeared so deeply
impressed with the responsibility of his mission that the door-
keeper, meeting him two or three times in the passages, bowed
to him with an air of mingled surprise and respect. He was
seen at every window, and, in spite of the bitter cold, he ap-
peared several times on the balcony with bundles of papers in
his hand, like a busy man attending to important despatches.

Then towards mid-day he passed through the town ; he
visited the guard-house?, speaking of a possible attack, and
letting it be understood that the insurgents were not far off;
but he relied, he said, on the courage of the brave national
guards. If necessary they should be ready to die to the last
man for the defence of the good cause. AYhen he returned
from this round, slowly and solemnly, after the manner of a
hero who has set the affairs of his country in order, and now
only awaits death, he observed signs of a complete stupor
along his path ; the people promenading in the Cours, the in-
corrigible little householders, whom no catastrophe would have
prevented from coming at certain hours to bask in the sun, looked
at him as he passed with an air of amazement, as if they did
not recognize him, and could not believe that one of their own
set, a former oil-dealer, should have the boldness to face a
whole army.

In the town the anxiety was at its height. The band of
insurrectionists was expected every moment. The rumour
of Macquart's escape was commented upon in a most alarming
manner. It was asserted that he had been rescued by his
friends the reds, and that he was awaiting night-fall in some
lurking-place in order to fall upon the inhabitants and set fire
to the four corners of the town. Plassans, closed in and terror-
stricken, was gnawing at its own vitals within its walled
prison, and was at a loss what else to imagine to frighten itself
still more. The republicans, in the face of Kougon's bold
attitude, felt a passing distrust. As for the new town, the
lawj^ers and retired tradespeople who had spoken against
the yellow drawing-room on the previous evening were so
surprised that they did not again dare to openly attack such a
brave man. They contented themselves with saying "it was

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 285

madness to brave victorious insurgents like that, and this use-
Jess heroism would bring- the greatest misfortune upon Plas-
sans." Then, at about three o'clock, they organised a deputa-
tion. Pierre, who was burning with a desire to make a display
of his devotion before his fellow-citizens, had not, however,
ventured to reckon upon such a fine opportunity.

He spoke sublirael}^ It was in the mayor's ofiSce that the
president of the Provisional Commission received the deputa-
tion from the new town. These gentlemen, after paying
homage to his patriotism, besought him not to think any
longer of resistance. But he, in a loud voice, talked of duty,
of his country, of order, of liberty, and various other things.
Moreover, he did not wish to compel any one to imitate him ;
he was simply discharging a duty which his conscience and his
heart dictated to him.

" You see, gentlemen, I am alone," he said in conclusion.
*' I will take all the responsibility, so that nobody but mj-
self may be compromised. And if a victim is required I will-
ingly offer myself ; I wish to sacrifice my own life for the
safety of the inhabitants."

A notary, the wiseacre of the party, remarked that he was
running to certain death.

** I know it," he resumed solemnl3^ " I am prepared I "

The gentlemen looked at each other. That " I am pre-
pared!" rivetted them with admiration. Decidedly this man
was a brave fellow. The notary conjured him to call in the
aid of the gendarmes; but he replied that the blood of those
soldiers was precious, and he would not have it shed, except in
the last extremity. The deputation withdrew slowly, deeply
moved. An hour afterwards, Plassans was treating Rougon
lil\» a hero ; the most cowardly called him " an old fool."

Towards evening, Rougon was much surprised to see
Garnoux hastening to him. The old almond-dealer threw
himself in his arms, calling him "noble man," and declaring he
would die with him. The " I am prepared ! " which had just
been reported to him by his maid-servant, who heard it at the
greengrocer's, had made him quite enthusiastic. There was a
charming naivete beneath his grotesque timorousness. Pierre
kept him there, thinking that he would not be of much conse-
quence. He was even touched by the poor man's devotion ;
he resolved to have him publicly complimented by the prefect,
in order to rouse the envy of the other citizens who had so

286 a:HE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

cowardly abandoned him. And both of them awaited the night
in the deserted building".

At the same time Aristide was striding about at home in an
uneasy manner. Vuillet's article had astonished him. His
father's attitude stupefied him. He had just caught sight of
him at the window, in a white cravat and black frock-coat, so
calm at the approach of danger that his ideas were all upset.
Yet the insurgents were coming back triumphant, that was the
belief of the whole town. But he felt some doubts. He had
suspicions of some lugubrious farce. As he did not dare to
present himself at his parents' house, he had sent his wife there.
When Angele returned, she said to him in her drawling voice :

" Your mother expects you : she is not angry at all, she
seems rather to be making fun of you. She reiterated to me
several times that you could just put your sling back in your
pocket."

Aristide was terribly put out. He ran to the Rue de la
Banne, however, prepared to make the most humble submis-
sion. His mother contented herself by receiving him with
scornful smiles.

" Ah ! my poor fellow," she said as she perceived him,
" you're certainly not very shrewd."

•* What can one do in a hole like Plassans ! " he angiily
cried. " On my word of honour, I am getting stupid here.
No news, and everybody shivering. That's what it is to be
shut up in these villanous ramparts. Ah ! if I had only fol-
lowed Eugene to Paris."

Then, seeing that his mother was still smiling, he added
bitterly :

" You haven't been very kind to me, mother. I know many
things, come now. My brother kept you informed of what
was going on, and you have never given me the least indica-
tion that might be useful."

"How do you know that?" Felicite asked, becoming serious
and distrustful. ' ' Well, j^ou' re not so foolish, then, as I thought.
Do you open letters like some one of my acquaintance ? "

" No, but I listen at doors," Aristide replied, with great
assurance.

This frankness was not displeasing to the old woman. She
began to smile again, and asked more softly :

" Well, then, you blockhead, how is it you didn't rally
sooner ? "

THE rOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 287

" All ! that's wliere it is," the young man said with em-
barrassment. " I didn't have much confidence in you. You
received such idiots : my-father-in-law, Granoux, and tlie
others, and then, I didn't want to go too far."

He listened, and then resumed with some uneasiness :

" To-day, at least, 3'ou are quite sure of the success of the
Coup d':fitat.'^

" I ! " Felicite cried, wounded by her son's doubts ; " no, I'm
not sure of anything."

*' And yet you sent word to say that I was to take off my
sling ! "

" Yes, because all the gentlemen are laughing at you."

Aristide stood rivetted there, his eyes wandering and appa-
rently contemplating one of the flowers of the orange-coloured
paper. His mother was seized with a sudden impatience as
she saw him hesitating thus.

"Ah yes," she said, "I come back again to my former
opinion : you're not very shrewd. And you think you ought
to have had Eugene's letters to read ? Why, my poor fellow,
you would have spoilt all, with your continual vacillation.
You never can make up your mind."

'' I hesitate ? " he interrupted, glaring at his mother
coldly. " Ah ! well, you don't know me. I would set the
whole town on fire if I wanted to warm my feet. But, under-
stand me, I've no desire to take the wrong road ! I'm tired
of eating my hard-earned bread, and intend to play fortune a
trick. But I only play for certainties."

He pronounced these words so sharply that his mother
recognised, in their burning passion for success, the cry of her
own blood. vShe whispered :

" Your father is very brave."

" Yes, I've seen him," he resumed, with a sneer. *' He's a
simpleton. He reminded me of Leonidas at Thermopylae.
Is it you, mother, who have made him cut such a figure ? "

And, he added cheerfully, with a gesture of determination :

"So much the worse ! I'm a Bonapartist ! Father is not
the man to risk the chance of being killed unless it pays him
well."

" And you're quite right," his mother said; " I mustn't say
anything, but to-morrow you'll see."

He did not press her, but swore that she would soon have
reason to be proud of him ; he then departed, while Felicite,

288 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

feeling" her old preference awakening-, said to herself at the
window, as she watched him going- awa}', that he had the
devil's spirit and his own too, that she would never have had
the courage to let him leave without setting him in the right
path.

For the third time night fell upon Plassans, a night full of
anguish. The town was sounding almost its last death-rattle.
The citizens went home quickly, the doors were barricaded
with a great noise of iron bolts and bars. The general feeling
seemed to be that, by the morrow, Plassans would no longer
exist, that it would be swallowed up by the earth or evaporate
to the heavens. When Rougon went home to dine, he found
the streets completelj'" deserted. This desolation made him sad
and melancholy. He consequently felt a slight misgiving
when he had finished his meal, and asked his wife if it were
necessar}'- to follow up the insurrection that Macquart was pre-
paring.

" Nobody will run us down now," he said. " You should
have seen those gentlemen of the new town, how they bowed
to me! It seems to me quite unnecessary now to kill any-
bod}" — he}' ! AVhat do you think ? We shall feather our nest
without that."

" Ah ! what a shallow fellow you are," Felicite cried
angrily. " It was your own idea to do it, and now you hold
back ! I tell you you'll never do anj^thing without me ! Go
then, go your own wa3\ Do you think the republicans will
spare you if they get hold of j'ou ? "

Ilougon, as soon as he was back at the mayor's, prepared
the ambush. Granoux was very useful to him. He despatched
him with orders to the different posts who were guarding the
ramparts. The national guards were to repair to the town-hall
in small groups, as secretly as possible. Roudier, that misguided
provincial Parisian who would have spoilt the whole affair
with his humanitarian preaching, was not even informed of
it. Towards eleven o'clock, the court-yard was full of
national guards. Rougon frightened them; he told them that
the republicans still remaining in Plassans were about to
attempt a desperate coup de main, and plumed himself on having
been warned in time by his secret police. When he had
pictured the bloody massacre which would overtake the town,
if these wretches were to get the upper hand, he ordered them
to cease speaking and extinguish all lights. He took a gun

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 289

himself. Since the morning he had been marching about as
though in a dream ; he did not recognise himself in the matter
any longer ; he felt Felicite behind him ; the crisis of the pre-
vious night had thrown him into her hands, and he would have
allowed himself to be seized, saying: *'It does not matter, my
wife will come and rescue me." To augment the tumult, and
heighten the terror which pervaded the slumbering town, he
begged Granoux to repair to the cathedral and have the tocsin
rung at the first shots. The marquis's name would open the
beadle's door. And, in the darkness, amid the dismal silence
of the court, the national guards waited in a terrible state of
anxiety, their eyes fixed on the porch, eager to fire, as though
they were lying in wait for a troop of wolves.

In the meantime, Macquart had passed the day in aunt Dide's
house. He had stretched himself on the old coffer, lamenting
the loss of Monsieur Gar9onnet's sofa. Several times he felt
a mad inclination to break into his two hundred francs at some
neighbouring cafe : this money was burning a hole in his
waistcoat pocket ; he whiled away his time by spending it in
imagination. His mother moved about, with her stiff, automatic
motion, apparently not even aware of his presence. Her
children had been running rather frequently to her during the
last few days, in a state of pallor and desperation, but she did
not relinquish her taciturnity, nor lose her deathly immobility.
She knew nothing of the fears that were upsetting the incar-
cerated town ; she was a thousand leagues awa^^ from Plassans,
floating in that one constant fixed idea which kept her eyes
open, devoid of all other thoughts. At this time, however,
an uneasiness, a human anxiety made her eyes twitch.
Antoine, unable to resist the temptation of having something
nice to eat, sent her to get a roast chicken from an eating-house
in the Faubourg. When it was set on the table :

"Hey!" he said to her, "you don't often eat chickens,
do you? It's only for those who work, and know how to
manage their affairs. As for you, you have always squan-
dered everything. I bet you're giving all j'our savings to that
demure hypocrite, Silvere. He's got a mistress, the sly fellow.
If 3'ou've got a hoard of money hidden in some corner, he'll
ease you of it nicely some da}'."

He was in a jesting mood, burning with wild exultation.
The money he had in his pocket, the treachery he was prepar-
ing, the conviction that he had sold himself at a good price,

290 THE FORTUNE OF THE HOUGONS.

filled him with the self satisfaction characteristic of vicious
people who are naturally merry and scornful in the midst
of their evil practices. Aunt Dide only heard Silvere's
name.

" Have you seen him ? " she asked, opening her lips at last.

*'AVho? Silvere?" Antoine replied. "He was walking
about among the insurgents with a tall red girl on his arm.
It will serve him right if he gets into trouble."

The grandmother looked at him fixedly, then, in a solemn
voice :

" Why ? " she said simply.

" Eh ! Why, he shouldn't be so stupid," he resumed, some-
what embarrassed. " People don't risk their neck for the sake
of ideas. I've settled my little business. I'm no fool."

But aunt Dide was no longer listening to him. She was
murmuring :

" He had his hands covered with blood. They'll kill him
for me like the other one. His uncles will send the gendarmes
after him."

" What are you muttering about there ? " her son said, as
he was finishing the bones of the chicken. " You know I like
people to accuse me to my face. If I have sometimes talked
to the little fellow about the Republic, it was only to bring
him round to a more reasonable way of thinking. He was
touched. I love liberty myself, but it mustn't degenerate into
licentiousness. And as for Rougon, I esteem him. He's a
man of courasre and common-sense."

" He had the gun, hadn't he ? " interrupted aunt Dide,
whose wandering mind seemed to be following Silvere far
away on the high road.

" The gun ? Ah! yes; Macquart's carbine," Antoine con-
tinued, after casting a glance at the mantel-shelf, where the
fire-arm was ordinarily hung. " I fancy I saw it in his hands.
A fine instrument to scour the country with, with a girl on
his arm. What a fool ! "

And he thought he might as well make a few obscene jokes.
Aunt Dide had commenced to bustle about the room again.
She did not say a word. Towards the evening, Antoine went
out, after putting on a blouse and pulling over his eyes a cap
which his mother had bought for him. He re-entered the
town in the same manner as he had quitted it, by relating a
little story to the national guards who were guarding the

THE FOETUXE OF THE KOUGONS. 291

Porte de Rome. Then he gained the old quarter, where he
crept from house to house in a mysterious manner. All the
elated republicans, all the members of the brotherhood who
had not followed the band, met in an obscure inn, where
Macquart had made an appointment with them. When about
fifty persons had assembled, he made a speech, in the course of
which he spoke of a personal vengeance to be gratified, of a
victory to be gained, of a disgraceful yoke to be thrown off, and
ended by undertaking to deliver the mayor's office over to them
in ten minutes. He had just left it, it was quite unguarded, he
said, and the red flag would float over it that very night if
they wished it. The workmen deliberated. At that moment
the reaction was in its death throes. The insurgents were at
the gates. It would be preferable and more honourable to
make some efforts to regain power without awaiting their
return, so that they might be able to receive them as brothers,
with the gates wide open, and the streets and squares adorned
with flags. Moreover, none of them distrusted Macquart. His
hatred against the Eougons, the personal vengeance of which
he spoke, answered for his loyalty. It was arranged that all
those who were sportsmen and had a gun at home should go and
fetch it, and that at midnight the band should assemble in the
neighbourhood of the town-hall. A question of detail very
nearly put an end to their plans — they had no bullets ; but they
decided that their weapons should be loaded with small shot ;
and even that was unnecessary, as they were certain not to
meet with any resistance.

Once more Plassans beheld a band of armed men filing
along close to the houses, in the tranquil moonlight. When
the band was assembled in front of the town-hall, Macquart
boldly advanced, keeping a sharp look-out at the same time.
He knocked, and when the door-keeper, who had learnt his
lesson, asked what was wanted, he uttered such terrible
menaces, that the man, feigning fright, made haste to open the
door. The two leaves of the door swung back slowl}^, and
the porch gaped open and empty before them. Then Macquart
shouted in a loud voice :

" Come, my friends ! "

That was the signal. He himself jumped aside quickly;
and as the republicans rushed in there issued, from the darkness
of the court-yard, a fiery stream and a shower of bullets, which
passed under the gaping porch like the rolling of thunder.

292 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

The door vomited death. The national guards, exasperated at
having" to wait so long-, and eager to relieve themselves of the
incubus which was weighing upon them in this dismal court-
yard, had all fired at o6ce with feverish haste. The flash was so
bright, that Macquart distinctly saw, through the j-ellow light
of the powder, Rougon taking aim. He fancied he saw the
barrel of the gun directed towards him, he recalled Felicite's
blush, and made his escape, muttering:

" No tricks ! The rascal would kill me. He owes me eight
hundred francs."

In the meantime, shrieks and howls were rising amid the
darkness. The surprised republicans, shouting treachery, had
fired in their turn. A national guard fell under the porch.
The republicans, after leaving three dead, took to flight,
stumbling over the corpses, stricken with panic and shouting
through the quiet lanes : " They're murdering our brethren ! "
in a despairing voice, which found no echo. The defenders
of order, having had time to reload their weapons, rushed
furiously upon the empty Place, sending bullets to all the
street corners, and wherever the darkness of a door, or the
shadow of a lamp-post, or the jutting of a stone made them
fancy they saw an insurgent. They remained there ten minutes,
firing their guns into space.

The ambush had burst over the slumbering town like a
thunderbolt. The inhabitants in the neighbouring- streets,
roused from their sleep by the noise of this terrible fusillade,
sat up in bed, their teeth chattering with fright. They would
not have ventured to put their noses out of the window for all
the world. And, slowly, in the air rent asunder by the shots,
one of the cathedral bells sounded the tocsin with a rhythm so
irregular, so strange, that one would have said it was the
hammering of an anvil or the echo of a colossal kettle struck by
the arm of a child in a fit of passion. This howling bell, which the
citizens did not recognise, terrified them more than the reports
of the guns ; and there were some who thought that what
they heard was the noise of an endless train of artillery rumbling
over the paving-stones. They lay down again and buried them-
selves beneath their blankets, imagining that they were running
into danger by continuing to sit up in bed in their closel^^-fastened
rooms. They drew the sheets up to their chins, held their
breath, and huddled themselves into as small a space as possible,
with the ends of their silk handkerchiefs falling in their eyes,

THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 293

while their wives, by their side, almost fainted with terror as
they buried their heads among the pillows.

The national guards who had remained at the ramparts also
heard the shots. They ran up helter-skelter, in groups of five
or six, thinking that the insurgents had entered by means of
some subterranean passage, disturbing the silence of the streets
with the tumult of their excited rush. Koudier was one of the
first to arrive. But Rougon sent them back to their posts,
reprimanding them severely for abandoning the gates of the
town. Thrown into consternation by this reproach — for in
their panic, they had, in fact, left the gates absolutely defence-
less— they resumed their gallop, and passed through the streets
again with a still more frightful uproar. Plassans might well
have thought that an infuriated army was running about it in
all directions. The fusillade, the tocsin, the marches and
countermarches of the national guards, their arms which they
dragged along like clubs, their terrified cries in the darkness,
produced a deafening tumult ; just like a town taken by assault
and given over to plunder. This, w^s the final blow for the
unfortunate inhabitants ; they had indeed said that it would be
their last night, that before daybreak Plassans would be
swallowed up in the earth, or would evaporate into smoke ; and
lying in their beds, they awaited the catastrophe, quite stupe-
fied, and fancying at times that their houses were already
tottering.

Granoux continued to ring the tocsin. When silence had
again fallen upon the town, the bell sounded very mournfully.
Rougon, who was burning with fever, was exasperated by its
distant wailing. He hastened to the cathedral and found the
door open. The beadle was on the threshold.

'* Ah ! that's quite enough ! " he shouted to the man ; ** any-
body would think there was some one crying ; it's quite un-
nerving."

" But it isn't me, sir," the beadle replied in a distressed
manner. " It's Monsieur Granoux, he's gone up into the steeple.
I must tell 3-0U that I took out the clapper of the bell, by the
priest's order, just to prevent the tocsin being sounded. Mon-
sieur Granoux wouldn't listen to reason. He climbed up, not-
withstanding. I don't know what he can be making that noise
with."

Rougon hastily ascended the staircase which led to the
bells, shouting :

204 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

" That will do ! that will do ! for goodness sake leave off !"

When he had reached the top of the staircase he caught
sight of Granoux, by the light of the moon which entered
through the embrasure of an ogive ; he was standing there,
without a hat, striking furiously with a heavy hammer. He
was setting to with a right good will. He threw himself back,
took a spring, and fell upon the sonorous bronze as if he wanted
to crack it. He drew his fat person together, and rushed upon
the big immovable bell, the vibration of which drove him back,
only to return to the attack with renewed violence. One
would have thought he was a blacksmith striking a hot iron ;
but a blacksmith in a frockcoat, short and bald, working in
awkward and wild attitudes.

Surprise kept Rougon motionless for a moment at the sight
of this frantic citizen belabouring the bell in the moonlight.
Then he understood what was the meaning of those kettle sounds
which this strange ringer was pouring out over the town. He
shouted to him to stop, but Granoux did not hear. He was
obliged to take hold of his frockcoat, whereupon Granoux, re-
cognising him, exclaimed in a triumphant voice :— " Ah ! you've
heard it. At first I tried to knock the bell with my fists, but
that hurt me. Fortunately I found this hammer. A few
more blows, eh ? "

But Rougon dragged him away. Granoux was radiant.
He wiped his forehead, and made his companion promise he
would let it be well known in the morning that he had pro-
duced all that noise with nothing but a hammer. What an
achievement, what importance this furious ringing would con-
fer upon him !

Towards morning, Rougon bethought himself of going to
reassure Felicite. In accordance with his orders, the national
guards had shut themselves up at the mayor's. He had forbidden
them to remove the dead, under the pretext that it was neces-
sary to give the populace of the old quarter a lesson. And
as he was passing along the Place, on which the moon was
no longer shining, in order to reach the Rue de la Banne, he
stepped on the hand of one of the corpses that lay clenched on
the edge of the footpath. He almost fell. This soft hand,
crushed by his heel, caused him an indefinable sensation of dis-
gust and horror. He ran along the deserted streets with rapid
strides, fancying he could feel behind his back a bloody hand
pursuing him.

KOUGON STErnXG INVOLU^'TAEILY ON THE DEAD INSURGENT S HAND.

p. 294.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 295

" There are four of them on the ground," he said, as he en-
tered his house.

They looked at each other as though they were themselves
astonished at what was their own crime.

The lamp gave a hue like yellow wax to their pale faces.

" Have you left them there ? " Felicite asked ; " they must
be found there."

*' Zounds! I didn't pick them up. They are l^nng on their
backs. I stepped on something soft "

He looked at his shoe. The heel was covered with blood.
While he was putting on another pair of shoes, Felicite re-
sumed :

"Well, well! so much the better! It's all over now.
They won't say any more that you only fire at mirrors."

The fusillade which the Rougons had planned in order to
definitively secure their recognition as the saviours of
Plassans, brought the whole town with fear and gratitude to
their feet. The day broke mournfully with the gre}^ melancholy
of a winter morning. The inhabitants, hearing nothing,
ventured forth, weary of trembling beneath their sheets.
They came out ten or fifteen at a time. Later on, when a
rumour was spread about that the insurgents had taken flight,
leaving their dead lying in every gutter, Plassans rose in a
body and descended upon the town-hall. During the whole
morning the people marched curiously round the four corpses.
They were horribly mutilated, particularly one which had
three bullets in the head. The upturned skull exposed the bare
brain to view. But the most terrible of the four was the
national guard who had fallen under the porch ; he had received
a charge of the small shot, which was used by the republicans
for want of bullets, full in the face. His torn and riddled
countenance was oozing with blood. The crowd feasted their
eyes with this horror, gazing long at it, with that avidity for re-
volting spectacles which is characteristic of cowards. They
recognised the national guard; it was the pork-butcher
Dubruel, he whom Roudier had accused on the Monday morning
of having fired with culpable eagerness. Of the three other
corpses, two were journeymen hatters ; the third was unknown.
Gaping groups w^ere shuddering in front of the red pools
which stained the pavement, looking behind them with an air
of mistrust, as though that summary justice which had restored
order during the night by force of armi=j were watchino^ them,

296 THE FORTUNE OF THE KOUGONS.

and spying their movements and their words, ready to shoot
them in their turn, unless they kissed with enthusiasm the hand
of him who had just rescued them from the demag-ogy.

The panic of the night further augmented the terrible effect
produced in the morning by the sight of the four corpses.
The true history of this fusillade was never known. The
firmg of the combatants, Granoux's hammering, the helter-
skelter flight of the national guards through the streets,
had filled their ears with such terrifying sounds that most of
them dreamed of a gigantic battle fought with a countless
mass of enemies. When the victors, magnifying the number
of their adversaries with an instinctive bashfulness, spoke
of about five hundred men, everybody protested against such
a low calculation. Some of the citizens asserted that they
had looked put and seen an immense stream of fugitives
passing by for more than an hour, and everybod}^ had heard
the bandits running under their windows. Five hundi'ed men
would never have been able to rouse a whole town. It must
have been an army, and a fine big army too, which the brave
militia of.Plassans had driven back into the ground. This
phrase of their having been driven back into the ground,
which was used by Rougon, struck the people as being singu-
larly applicable, for the guards who were charged with the
defence of the ramparts swore by all that was holy that not a
single man had entered or quitted the town, and this circum-
stance tinged what had happened with an air of mystery,
suggesting the idea of horned demons destroyed by the flames,
and filled the people's imagination with the wildest theories.
It is true the guards avoided all mention of their mad gallops ;
and so even the most rational citizens were inclined to believe
that a band of insurgents had really entered either by a breach
in the wall or through some other channel. Later on, rumours
of treachery were spread abroad, and people talked of an am-
bush. The cruel truth could no longer be concealed by the
men led to slaughter by Macquart ; but there was so much
terror still about, and the sight of blood had thrown so many
cowards into the arms of the reactionary party, that these
rumours were attributed to the rage of the vanquished repub-
licans. It was asserted, on the other hand, that Macquart had
been made prisoner by Rougon, who kept him in a damp cell,
where he was letting him die of slow starvation. This horrible
tale procured the most humble homage for Rougon.

THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 597

Thus it was that this grotesque person, this pale, flabby,
tun-bellied citizen became, in one nig-ht, a terrible gentleman,
whom nobody dared to ridicule any more. He had steeped his
foot in blood. The inhabitants of the old quarter stood dumb
with fright before the corpses. But towards ten o'clock, when
the respectable people of the new town arrived, the place was
filled with hushed conversations and stifled exclamations. They
spoke of the other attack, of the seizure of the mayor's ofiice, in
which a mirror only had been wounded ; but this time they
were not jesting with Rougon, they spoke of him with respectful
dismay ; he was indeed a hero, a deliverer. The corpses, with
their eyes open, were staring at these gentlemen, the lawyers and
the householders, who shuddered as they murmured that civil
war had many cruel necessities. The notary, the chief of the de-
putation sent to the mayor's on the previous evening, went from
group to group, recalling the " I am prepared ! " of the energetic
man to whom the town owed its safety. There was a general
humiliation. Those who had railed most cruelly against the
forty-one, those, especiallj^, who had treated the Rougons as
intriguers and cowards firing shots in the air, were the first
to decree a crown of laurels " to the noble citizen of whom
Plassans would be for ever proud." For the pools of blood
were drying on the pavement, and the corpses, through their
wounds, were declaring to what a degree of audacity the party
of disorder, pillage, and murder had gone, and what an iron
hand had been required to put down the insurrection.

Granoux was receiving congratulations and hand-shakings
from the crowd. The story of the hammer had become
known. By an innocent falsehood, however, of which he'
himself soon became unconscious, he asserted that, having
been the first to see the insurgents, he had set about striking
the bell, in order to sound the alarm, and, but for him, the
national guards had been massacred. This doubled his im-
portance. His achievement was declared prodigious. They
spoke of him now as " Monsieur Isidore, don't you know ?
the gentleman who sounded the tocsin with a hammer!"
Although the sentence was somewhat lengthy Granoux would
willingly have accepted it as a title of nobility ; and, hence-
forward, he never heard the word " hammer" pronounced, but
he imagined it some delicate flattery.

As the corpses were being removed, Aristide came to look
at them. He examined them on all sides, sniffing the air, while

298 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

he looked inquisitively at their faces. His countenance and
bright eyes wore a dissatisfied look. He lifted up the blouse
of one of the corpses with his hand, which, previously suspended
in a sling, was now free, in order to see the wound better.
This examination seemed to convince him and remove a
doubt from his mind. He bit his lips, stood there a moment in
silence, and then went away for the purpose of hastening on the
issue of the " Independant," for which he had written a grand
article. As he was passing along by the houses, he recalled
his mother's words : " You will see to-morrow ! " He had
seen, it was Yery clever ; it even frightened him somewhat.

In the meantime, Rougon was commencing to be embarrassed
by his triumph. Alone in Monsieur Gar^onnet's office, hearing
the rumbling noise of the crowd, he was conscious of a strange
feeling, which prevented him from showing himself on the bal-
cony. That blood, in which he had stepped, seemed to have
made his legs rigid. He bethought himself what he should do
until the evening. His poor empty head, upset by the crisis
of the previous night, was seeking desperately for some occu-
pation, some order to give, or some measure to be taken, which
might afford him some distraction. But he could think about
nothing clearly. Whither was Felicite leading him ? Was it
all finished now, or would he still have to kill somebody else ?
Fear again assailed him, terrible doubts arose in his mind, and
he saw the enceinte of the ramparts broken down on all sides
by the avenging army of the republicans, when a loud shout :
"The insurgents! the insurgents!" burst out under the win-
dows of the room. He jumped up, and, raising a curtain,
saw the crowd rushing about the Place in despair. At this
thunderbolt, he foresaw himself, in less than a second, ruined,
pillaged, and murdered; he cursed his wife, he cursed the
whole town. Then, as he looked behind him in a suspicious
manner, seeking some means of escape, he heard the mob break
out into applause, uttering shouts of joy, and making the glass
shake with their wild delight. He returned to the window ;
the women were waving their handkerchiefs, and the men
were embracing each other. There were some among them
who joined hands and began to dance. He stood there stupe-
fied, unable to comprehend it, and feeling his head swimming
round. The big building surrounding him, all deserted and
silent, frightened him.

Rougon, when he related his feelings to Felicite, was unable

O^IIE FOETUNE OF THE KOUGONS. 299

to say how long" his torture had lasted. He only remembered
that the noise of footsteps, echoing- in the vast halls, had roused
him from his stupor. He expected to see men in blouses,
armed with scythes and clubs, whereas it was the Municipal
Commission who entered, quite orderly and in evening- dress,
with their countenances beaming-. Not a single member
was absent. A piece of good news had completely cured all
these gentlemen at once. Granoux rushed into the arms of his
dear president.

'' The soldiers ! " he stammered, " the soldiers ! "

A regiment had, in fact, just arrived, under the command of
Colonel Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, prefect of the depart-
ment. The guns which had been observed from the ramparts,
far away in the plain, had at first suggested the approach of the
insurgents. Kougon was so deeply moved that two big tears
rolled down his cheeks. He was weeping, the great citizen !
The Municipal Commission watched these big tears fall with a
respectful admiration. But Granoux again threw himself on
his friend's neck, crying :

"Ah! how glad I am! You know I'm a straightforward
man. Well, we were all of us afraid; is it not so, gentle-
men ? You alone were great, brave, sublime ! What energy
you must have had ! I was just now saying to my wife :
' Rougon is a great man ; he deserves to be decorated.' "

Then these gentlemen proposed to go and meet the prefect.
Rougon felt quite stunned and suffocated ; he was unable
to believe in this sudden triumph, and stammered like a
child. He drew his breath, and went downstairs quietly, with
a dignity suited to the solemnity of the occasion. But the
enthusiasm which greeted the Commission and its president
outside the town-hall almost upset anew his magisterial
gravity. His name ran about the crowd, accompanied this
time with the warmest eulogies. He heard the entire people
repeat Granoux's avowal, and treat him as a hero who had
stood firm and resolute amid the universal panic. And, as
far as the Sub-Prefecture, where the Commission met the pre-
fect, he drank in his popularity and his glory with the volup-
tuous thrillings of a love-sick woman who has at last attained
the gratification of her desires.

Monsieur de Bleriot and Colonel Masson entered the town
alone, leaving their troops encamped on the Lyons road. They
had lost a considerable amount of time through a misunder*

^00 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS.

standing" as to the direction taken by the insurgents. Now,
however, they knew they w^ere at Orcheres ; and it w^ould only
be necessary to stop an hour at Plassans, just sufficient time to
reassure the population and publish the cruel ordinances which
decreed the sequestration of the insurgents' property, and death
to every individual taken with arms in his hands. Colonel
Masson smiled when the commander of the national guards
had the bolts of the Porte de Rome drawn, with a great
noise of old rusty iron. The detachment accompanied the
prefect and the colonel as a guard of honour. As they traversed
the Cours Sauvaire, Roudier related Rougon's epic to these
gentlemen — the three days of panic, terminating with the bril- "
liant victory of the previous night. When the two processions
came face to face, therefore, Monsieur de Bleriot advanced
quickly towards the president of the Commission, shook hands
with him, congratulated him, and begged him to continue
to watch over the town until the return of the authorities.
Rougon bowed, while the prefect, having reached the door of
the Sub-Prefecture, w^here he w^anted to rest for a moment,
proclaimed in a loud voice that he w^ould not forget to mention
his brave and noble conduct in his report.

In the meantime, in spite of the bitter cold, everybody had
come to the windows. Felicite, leaning forward at the risk
of falling out, was quite pale wdth joy. Aristide had just
arrived with a number of the " Independant," in which he had
openly declared him.self in favour of the Coup d'Etat, which he
welcomed "as the aurora of liberty in order and of order in
liberty." He had also made a delicate allusion to the yellow
drawing-room, acknowledging his errors, declaring that
"youth is presumptuous," and that "great citizens say noth-
ing, reflect in silence, and let insults pass by, in order to stand
firm in their heroism, when the struggle comes." He was
especially pleased with this sentence. His mother thought the
article very well written. She kissed her dear child, and
placed him on her right hand. The Marquis de Carnavant,
weary of incarcerating himself, and seized with eager curiosity,
had likewise come to see her, and stood on her left, leaning
on the window-rail.

When Monsieur de Bleriot held out his hand to Rougon in
the Place, Felicite wept.

" Oh ! see, see," she said to Aristide. " He has shaken
hands with him. Look ! he is doing it again ! "

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOKS. 301

And casting" a glance at the windows, where groups of heads
were congregated, she added :

"How wild they must be! Look at Monsieur Peirotte's
wife, she's biting her handkerchief. And over there, the notar^^'s
daughter, and Madame Massicot, and the Brunet family, what
faces, eh ? how angry they look ! Ah ! indeed, it's our turn now/*

She followed the scene which was being enacted at the door
of the Sub-Prefecture with a thrilling delight, which shook her
ardent, grasshopper-like body. She interpreted the slightest
gesture, invented words which she was unable to catch, and
said that Pierre made a very good bow. She was a little
vexed when the prefect deigned to speak to that poor Granoux
who was hovering about him fishing for a word of praise. No
doubt Monsieur de Bleriot already knew the story of the hammer,
for the retired almond-dealer turned as red as a j^oung gu'l, and
seemed to be saying that he had only done his duty. But that
which angered her still more was her husband's excessive
amiability in presenting Vuillet to these gentlemen. Yuillet, it
is true, pushed himself forward amongst them, and Rougon was
compelled to mention him.

"What a schemer!" Felicite muttered. "He mtrudes
himself everywhere. How confused my poor dear husband
must be ! See, there's the colonel speaking to him. AVhat can
he be saying to him ? "

" Ah ! little one," the marquis replied with a touch of
irony, "he is complimenting him for having closed the gates so
carefully."

"M}^ father has saved the town," Aristide said in a curt
tone of voice. " Have you seen the corpses, sir? "

Monsieur de Carnavant did not answer. He withdrew
from the window, and sat down in an arm-chair, gently shaking
his head with an air of disgust. At that moment, the prefect
having taken his departure, Rougon ran up and threw himself
upon his wife's neck.

" Ah ! my dear ! " he broke out.

He was unable to say more. Felicite made him kiss Aristide
also, telling him of the superb article in the " Independant."
Pierre would have kissed the marquis as well, he was so
affected. But his wife took him aside, and gave him Eugene's
letter which she had put in an envelope again. She pretended
that it had just been delivered. Pierre triumphantly held it
out to her after reading it.

302 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

"You are a sorceress," he said to her laughing. ''You
guessed everything. What folly I should have committed
/ without you ! AYe'll manage our little affairs together now.
• Kiss me, you're a clever woman."

He clasped her in his arms, while she exchanged a knowing
smile with the marquis.

S03

CHAPTER VII.

It was not until Sunday, the day after the massacre at Saintb
Roure, that the troops passed through Plassans again. The pre-
fect and the colonel, whom Monsieur Gar^onnet had invited to
dinner, entered the town alone. The soldiers went round the
ramparts and encamped in the Faubourg, on the Nice road.
Night was falling ; the sky, overcast since the morning, wore
a strange yellow tint, which illumined the town with murky
light, similar to the copper-coloured glimmerings in stormy
weather. The reception of the troops by the inhabitants was
timid ; these soldiers, with their wounds still fresh, who were
passing, weary and silent, through the yellow twilight, were
distasteful and unwelcome to the little well-to-do citizens on the
Cours, who whispered to each other, as they stepped out of the
way, terrifying stories of fusillades and revengeful reprisals
which still live in the recollection of the country. A terror,
consequent upon the Coup d'etat, was beginning to make itself
felt, an overwhelming and crushing terror which kept the
South in a state of tremor for many a long month. Plassans,
in its fear and hatred of the insurgents, had welcomed the
troops on their first arrival with shouts of enthusiasm; but
now, at the appearance of this gloomy-looking regiment, who
would fire at a word from their chief, the retired merchants
and even the notaries of the new town anxiously questioned
each other, asking if they had not committed some political
peccadilloes which might be thought deserving of a bullet.

The authorities had returned since the previous evening in
a couple of carts hired at Sainte-Roure. Their unexpected
entry was devoid of all triumphal display. Rougon surren-
dered the mayor's arm-chair without much regret. The game
had been pla^^ed ; and he awaited from Paris, with feverish long-
ing, the recompense for his devotion. On the Sunday — he had
not hoped for it until the following day — he received a letter
from Eugene. Felicite had taken care, since Thursday, to send
her sou the numbers of the "Gazette" and " Independant"

304 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

which, in a second edition, had narrated the battle of the night
and the arrival of the prefect. Eugene replied by return of
post that the nomination of his father to a receivership was
about to be signed ; but, he said, he wanted to give them some
good news immediately. He had just obtained the ribbon of
the Legion of Honour for him. Felicite wept. Her husband
decorated ! her proud dream had never gone as far as that.
Rougon, pale with joy, said they must give a grand dinner
that very evening. He no longer thought of expense ; he
would have thrown his last fifty francs out of the drawing-
room windows to the people in order to celebrate this glorious
day.

"Listen," he said to his wife; "you must invite Sicardot:
he has annoyed me with that rosette of his for a long time !
Then Granoux and Roudier ; I shouldn't be at all sorry to
make them feel that it is not their heavy purses that will ever
gain the cross for them. Vuillet is a skinflint, but the triumph
ought to be complete ; invite him as well as all the small fry.
I was forgetting: you must go and call on the marquis in
person ; we will put him on your right ; he'll look very well
at our table. You know Monsieur Gar^onnet is entertain-
ing the colonel and the prefect. That is to make me understand
that I am nobody now. I can afford to laugh at his mayor-
alty ; it doesn't bring him in a sou ! He has invited me, but I
shall tell him that I also have some people coming. They will
laugh- on the wrong side of their mouths to-morrow. Make
great preparations. Have everything brought from the Hotel
de Provence. We must outdo the mayor's dinner."

Felicite set to work. Pierre still felt a vague uneasiness
in the midst of his raptures. The Coup d'Etat was going to
pay his debts, his son Aristide had repented of his faults, and
he was at last releasing himself from Macquart ; still he feared
some folly on Pascal's part, and was especially uneasy about
the lot reserved for Silvere. Not that he felt the least pity for
him ; he was simply afraid that the matter of the gendarme
might come before the Court of Assizes. Ah ! if only some
discriminating bullet had managed to rid him of that young
scoundrel ! As his wife had pointed out to him in the morning,
all obstacles had fallen away before him : that family which
was dishonouring him had, at the last moment, worked for his
elevation; his sons Eugene and Aristide, those spendthrifts
whose college career he regretted so bitterly, were at last

THE FOBTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 305

paying the interest on the capital laid out for their instruction.
And yet the thought of that wretched Silvere must come to
trouble his hour of triumph !

While Felicite was running about to prepare the dinner for
the evening, Pierre heard of the arrival of the troops and de-
termined to go and make inquiries. Sicardot, whom he had
questioned on his return, knew nothing ; Pascal must have re-
mained to look after the wounded ; as for Silvere, he had not
even been seen by the commander, who scarcely knew him.
Rougon then repaired to the Faubourg, intending to pay Mac-
quart, at the same time, the eight hundred francs which he had
only just succeeded in raising with great difficulty. But when
he was in the crowd of the encampment, and saw the prisoners
from a distance sitting in long files on the beams in the Aire
Saint-Mittre, and guarded by soldiers gun in hand, he was afraid
of compromising himself, and slunk off to his mother's house,
with the intention of sending the old woman out to pick up
some information.

When he entered the hovel it was almost night. He only
saw Macquart at first, smoking and drinking brandy.

"Is that you? Pm glad of it," muttered Antoine, who
was on friendly terms with his brother again. " I'm growing
deuced old here. Have you got the money ? "

But Pierre did not repl}^ He had just perceived his son
Pascal leaning over the bed. He questioned him eagerly.
The doctor, surprised at his uneasiness, which he had attributed
at first to his paternal affection, told him that the soldiers had
taken him and would have shot him, had it not been for the in-
tervention of some honest fellow whom he did not know.
Saved by his quality of surgeon, he had returned with the
troops. This was a great relief to Rougon. It made still an-
other one who would not compromise him. He was evincing
his delight by repeated hand-shakings, when Pascal concluded
by saying in a sorrowful voice :

" Don't make yourself so merry. I have just found my
poor grandmother in a very dangerous condition. I was
bringing her back this carbine, which she values very much ;
I found her lying there, and she has not moved since."

Pierre's eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness.
In the fast fading light he saw aunt Dide stretched, rigid and
lifeless, upon the bed. Her miserable body, shattered by
lieurosis from her cradle, was at length laid prostrate by a,

306 THE FORTUNE OE THE EOUGONS.

supreme shock. Her nerves had, as it were, devoured her
blood ; the weary travail of her ardent flesh, that was
wearing itself out and consuming itself in a tardy chastity, was
drawing to a close, converting the miserable creature into a
mere corpse which ever and anon some shock seemed to
galvanise into life At that moment, a cruel grief seemed to
have accelerated the slow wasting away of her life. Her pale
nun-like face, drawn and enervated by gloom and a life of
cloister-like self-denial, was stained with red patches. Her
features were convulsed, her eyes glared terribly, and her hands
were twisted and clenched, as she lay at full length in her
skirts, which accentuated the sharp outlines of her scranny
limbs. Her lips were closely pressed, as she lay in that dim
room in all the horror of a mute death-agony.
/ Rougon made a gesture of vexation. This heart-rending
spectacle was very disagreeable to him. He had company
coming to dinner in the evening, and it would be extremely
inconvenient for him to have to appear mournful. His mother
was always doing something to bother him. She might just as
well have chosen another day ; and he put on an appearance
of perfect easiness, as he said :

" Bah ! it's nothing. I've seen her like that a hundred
times. You must let her lie still ; it's the only thing that does
her any good."

Pascal shook his head.

"No, this fit is not like the others,'* he whispered. *' I
have often studied her, and have never observed such symp-
toms before. Just look at her eyes : they have a peculiar
fluidity, a pale brightness about them which causes me con-
siderable uneasiness. And her face, what a frightful contort
tion of all the muscles !"

Then, bending further over to observe her features more
closely, he continued in a whisper, as though speaking to him-
self :

" I have never seen such a face, excepting in people who
have been murdered or have died from fright. She must have
suffered some terrible shock."

" But how did the attack commence?" Rougon asked im-
patiently, not being able to hit upon any excuse for leaving the
room.

Pascal did not know. Macquart, as he poured himself out
another glass, explained that he had felt an inclination to drink

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 307

a little brandy, and had sent her to fetch a bottle. She was
not out very long-. But as she entered she fell rigid on the
ground without uttering a word. Macquart had had to carry
her to the bed.

" What surprises me," he said, by way of conclusion, " is,
that she did not break the bottle."

The young doctor reflected. After a short silence he re-
sumed :

" I heard two shots as I came here. Perhaps those wretches
have been shooting some more prisoners. If she was passing
through the ranks of the soldiers at that moment, the sight of
blood might have thrown her into this fit. She must have had
some dreadful shock."

Fortunately he had with him the little medicine-chest
which he had been carrying about since the departure of the
insurgents. He tried to introduce a few drops of reddish liquid
through aunt Dide's closely-set teeth. During this time Mac-
quart again asked his brother :

" Have you got the money ? "

"Yes, I've brought it; we'll settle now," Rougon replied,
glad of this diversion.

Thereupon Macquart, seeing that he was going to be paid,
began to moan. He had only learnt the consequence of his
treachery when it was too late ; otherwise he would have de-
manded twice or thrice as much.- Then he began to complain.
Really, a thousand francs, it was not enough. His children
had forsaken him, he was all alone in the world, and obliged
to quit France. He was very near crying as he spoke of his
exile.

" Come now, will you have the eight hundred francs ? "
said Rougon, who was in haste to be off.

"No, certainly not ; double the sum. Your wife cheated
me. If she had told me distinctly what it was she expected
of me, I would never have compromised myself for such a
trifle."

Rougon laid out the eight hundred francs on the table.

" I swear I haven't got any more," he resumed. " I will
think of you later. But do, for mercy's sake, get away this
evening."

Macquart, cursing and mouthing muttered protests, carried
the table to the window, and commenced to count the gold in
the fading twilight. The coins tickled the tips of his fingers

808 THE FOETUNE OP THE ROUGONS.

very pleasantly as he let them fall, while their tinkling* filled
the darkness with a clear music. He interrupted himself for a
moment to say :

" You promised to get me a berth, you remember. I want
to return to France. The post of rural guard in some
pleasant neighbourhood which I could mention, would just suit
me."

" Yery well, I'll see about it." Rougon replied. " Have
you got the eight hundred francs ? "

Macquart resumed his counting. The last coins were just
chinking when a burst of laughter made them turn, their heads.
Aunt Dide was standing up in front of the bed, with her bodice
unfastened, her white hair hanging loose, and her pale face
stained with red spots. Pascal had in vain endeavoured to
hold her down. Trembling all over, and with her arms out-
stretched, she was shaking her head deliriously.

" The blood-money ! the blood-money ! " she repeated
several times. " I heard the gold. And it is they, they
who sold him. Ah 1 the murderers ! They are a pack of
wolves."

She pushed her hair back, and passed her hand over her
forehead, as though she were collecting her thoughts. Then
she continued :

"For a long time I have seen him with his forehead pierced
by a bullet. 1 always imagined that there were people lying
in wait for him with guns. They used to sign to me that
they were going to fire. It's terrible ! I feel some one
breaking my bones and battering out my brains. Oh ! mercy !
mercy ! I beseech you ; he shall not see her any more —
never, never ! I will shut him up. I will prevent him walk-
ing with her. Mercy ! mercy ! don't fire. It is not my fault.
If you knew "

She had almost fallen on her knees, and was weeping and
praying while she stretched out her poor trembling hands to
some horrible vision which she saw in the darkness. Then she
suddenly sat upright, and her eyes opened still more widely as
her convulsed throat uttered a terrible cry, as though some
awful sight, visible to her alone, had filled her with a mad
terror.

" Oh, the gendarme ! " she said, choking and falling back-
wards upon the bed, where she rolled about, breaking" out intg
lon^ and noisy bursts of insane laug-hter.

THE FOBTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 309

Pascal foll'owed the attack attentively. The two brothers,
who were very frightened, catching only incoherent phrases,
had taken refuge in a corner of the room. When Rougon
heard the word gendarme, he thought he understood ; since
the murder of her lover on the frontier aunt Dide cherished a
deep hatred against the gendarmes and custom-house oflQcers,
whom she mingled together in one common longing for ven-
geance.

" Why, it's the story of the poacher that she's telling us,'*
he whispered.

Pascal made a sign to him to keep quiet. The dying
woman raised herself up painfully. She looked around her,
with a stupefied glance. She remained silent for a moment,
endeavouring to recognise the objects around her, as though
she were in some strange place. Then, with a sudden expres-
sion of anxiety, she asked :

"Where is the gun ? "

The doctor put the carbine into her hands. She broke out
into a gentle cry of joy, and gazed at it for a long time, saying
in a whisper, in the soft voice of a little girl :

"That is it, oh! I recognise it! It is all stained with
blood. The stains are quite fresh to-day. His red hands have
left marks of blood on the butt-end. Ah 1 poor, poor aunt
Dide ! " ^ •

Her poor head became dizzy again, and she lapsed into
silent thought.

"The gendarme was dead," she murmured, " but I have
seen him again, he has come back. They never die, those
blackguards ! "

She was again seized with a gloomy fury, and, shaking the
carbine, she advanced towards her two sons who, speechless
with fright, were crouching in a corner. Her loosened
skirts trailed along the ground, as she drew up her twisted
body, half naked and terribly sunken from old age.

" It's you who fired ! " she cried. " I heard the gold.
Wretched woman that I am ! I have brought nothing but
wolves into the world — a whole family — a whole litter of
wolves. There was onl}'' one poor lad, and the}^ have devoured
him ; they have all had a bite at him, and their lips are covered
with blood. Ah ! the villains ! they have robbed, they have
murdered. And they live like gentlemen. Villains ! accursed
villains! "

310 THE FOPiTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

She sang", and laughed, and cried, as she repeated ^' accursed
villains ! " in strangely sonorous tones, like the crushing sound
of a fusillade. Pascal, with tears in his eyes, took her in his
arms and laid her on the bed again. She submitted like a child.
She continued her wailing cries, bringing out the words in
quicker succession, and beating time on the sheet with her
withered hands.

" That's just what I was afraid of," the doctor said ; " she is
mad. The blow has been too heavy for a poor creature already
subject, as she is, to acute neurosis. She will die in a lunatic
asylum like her father."

" But what could she have seen ? " Rougon asked, ventur-
ing at last to quit the corner where he was crouching.

" I have a terrible suspicion," Pascal replied. " I was
going to speak to you about Silvere when you came in. He
is a prisoner. You must endeavour to obtain his release from
the prefect, if there is still time."

The old oil-dealer turned pale as he looked at his son.
Then, in a rapid voice, he continued:

" Listen to me ; you stay here and watch her. Pm too busy
this evening, We will see about conveying her to-morrow to
the lunatic ae3^1um at Les Tulettes. As for you, Macquart, you
must leave this very night. Swear to me that you will ! I'm
going to find Monsieur de Bleriot."

He stammered as he spoke, and longed to get out into the
fresh air of the street. Pascal fixed a penetrating look on the
madwoman, and then on his father and uncle. His professional
instinct was getting the better of him, and he was studying the
mother and the sons, with the keenness of a naturalist observing
the metamorphoses of an insect. He was pondering over the
offshoots of that family, over the different branches which had
grown out of one parent stock, whose pungent sap carried the
same germs to the most remote stems, which twisted themselves
in various directions according to the sunshine or shade in
which they had lived. For a moment he thought he could
catch a glimpse of the future of the Rougon-Macquart family,
a pack of unbridled, insatiate appetites, lit up, for a moment,
by a lightning-like blaze of gold and blood.

Aunt Dide had ceased her wailing chant at the mention of
Silvere's name. She listened anxiously for a moment. Then
she broke out into terrible shrieks. ]S ight had now completely
fallen, and the room, wrapped in black gloom, seemed horribly

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGOXS. 311

empty. The shrieks of the madwoman, who was no longer
visible, broke through the darkness as from a grave. Rougon,
losing his head, took flight, pursued by those woeful cries of
reproach, which sounded more agonising as they burst through
the gloomy darkness.

As he was emerging from the Impasse Saint-Mittre with
hesitating steps, asking himself whether it would not : be
dangerous to solicit Silvere's pardon from the prefect, he saw
Aristide prowling about the timber-yard. The latter, recognis-
ing his father, ran up to him with an expression of anxiety and
said a few words in his ear. Pierre turned pale ; he cast a
look of alarm towards the end of the yard, through the
darkness that was broken only by the red light of a gipsy
fire. Then they both disappeared down the Rue de Rome,
quickening their steps as though they had committed a murder,
and turning up their coat-collars in order not to be seen.

" That saves me an errand," Rougon whispered. " Let
us go to dinner. They are waiting for us.''

When they arrived, the 3'ellow drawing-room was resplen-
dent. Felicite was all over the place. Everybody was there ;
Sicardot, Granoux, Roudier, Yuillet, the oil-dealers, the
almond-dealers, the whole set. The marquis, however, had
excused himself on account of his rheumatism ; and, besides,
he said that he was about to leave for a short trip. These
blood-stained citizens disgusted his delicacy, and his relative,
the Count de Yalquej^ras, had begged him to withdraw
himself from public notice for some time, and to retire to the
Corbiere estate. Monsieur de Carnavant's refusal vexed the
Rougons. Felicite consoled herself, however, by resolving to
make a more profuse display of luxury. She hired two cande-
labra and ordered several additional dishes as a kind of substi-
tute for the marquis. The table was laid in the 3'ellow draw-
ing-room, in order to lend additional impressiveness to the
occasion. The Hotel de Provence had supplied the silver, the
china, and the glass. The cloth had been laid since five
o'clock, in order that the guests as they arrived might feast
their eyes upon it. At either end of the table, on the white
cloth, there were two bouquets of artificial roses, in gilded
porcelain vases painted with flowers.

The habitual guests of the yellow drawing-room, when they
were assembled, could not conceal their admiration of the
spectacle. These gentlemen smiled with an air of embarrass-

312 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

meiit as they exchanged furtive glances, which clearly signi-
fied, "These Rougons are fools; they are throwing their
money out of the window." The truth was, Felicite, as she
went round to invite the guests, was unable to hold her tongue.
Everybody knew that Pierre had been decorated, and that he
was about to be nominated to some post ; this irritated them
very much, as the old woman said. Roudier indeed observed,
*' That little black woman was puffing herself out too much."
On the day of recompense, this band of citizens, who had
rushed upon the expiring Republic — each one keeping an eye
upon the other, and glorying in giving a deeper bite than his
neighbour — did not think it just that their, hosts should have
all the laurels of the battle. Those who had howled by
instinct, demanding no recompense from the rising Empire,
were greatly annoyed to see that, thanks to them, the poorest,
the most disreputable of them all, should be decorated with
the red ribbon. The whole yellow drawing-room ought to
have been decorated !

" Not that I value the decoration," Roudier said to Granoux,
whom he had dragged into the embrasure of a window. " I
refused it in the time of Louis-Philippe, when I was purveyor
to the court. Ah ! Louis-Philippe was a good king. France
will never find his equal ! "

Roudier was becoming Orleanist again. Then he added,
with the cunning hypocrisy of an old hosier from the Rue
Saint-Honore :

"But you, my dear Granoux ; don't you think the ribbon
would look well in your button-hole ? After all, you did as
much to save the town as Rougon. Yesterday I was calling
upon some very distinguished persons, and they could scarcely
believe that you could have made so much noise with a
hammer."

Granoux stammered some thanks, and, blushing like a
maiden at her first confession of love, whispered in Koudier's
ear :

" Don't say anything about it, but I have reason to believe
that Rougon will ask the ribbon for me. He's a good sort of
fellow."

The old hosier thereupon became grave, and assumed a very
affable manner. When Vuillet came and spoke to him of the
well-deserved reward their friend had just received, he replied
in a loud voice, in order to be heard by Felicite, who was sit-

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 313

ting a little way off, that " men like Roiigon were an ornament
to the Legion of Honour." The bookseller joined in the chorus ;
he had that morning received a formal assurance that the custom
of the college would be restored to him. As for Sicardot, at
first he felt somewhat annoyed to find himself no longer the
only one of the set who was decorated. According to him, no
one but soldiers had a right to the ribbon. Pierre's valour
surprised him. But, being a good-natured man at heart, he
grew warm in Pierre's favour, and ended by saying that the
Napoleons knew how to distinguish men of spirit and energy.

Rougon and Aristide consequently had an enthusiastic re-
ception ; all hands were held out to them. Some of the guests
went so far as to kiss them. Angele was on the sofa, by the
side of her mother-in-law, very happy, gazing at the table
with the astonishment of a gourmand who has never seen so
many dishes at once. As Aristide approached, Sicardot came
to compliment his son-in-law upon his superb article in the
" Independant." He restored his friendship to him. The
young man, in answer to the paternal questions Sicardot ad-
dressed to him, replied that he was anxious to leave with his
young family for Paris, where his brother Eugene would push
him forward; but he was in want of five hundred francs.
Sicardot promised him the money, already foreseeing his
daughter received at the Tuileries by Napoleon III.

In the meantime, Felicite had made a sign to her husband.
Pierre, surrounded by everybody and questioned anxiously
about his paleness, could only escape for a minute. He was
just able to whisper in his wife's ear that he had found Pascal,
and that Macquart would leave that night. He lowered his
voice as he told her of his mother's insanity, placing his finger
on her lips, as if to say: "Not a word; that would spoil the
whole evening." Felicite bit her lips. They exchanged a
look in which they read their common thoughts : now, the old
woman would not trouble them any more ; the poacher's hovel
would be razed to the ground, as the walls of the Fouques'
property had been demolished ; and they would for ever enjoy
the respect and consideration of Plassans.

But the guests were looking at the table. Felicite showed
the gentlemen their seats. It was a perfect bliss. As each
one was taking his spoon, Sicardot, by a gesture, begged a
moment's delay. He rose and said gravely :

" Gentlemen, on behalf of society, I wish to express to our

314 a:nE fortune of the eougons.

host bow pleased we are at the reward which his courage and
patriotism have procured for him. I see now that he must have
acted upon a heaven-sent inspiration in remaining here, while
those beggars were dragging us along the high roads.
Therefore, I ai:)plaud the determination of the government.
Let me finish, you can then congratulate our friend. Know,
then, that our friend, besides being made chevalier of the
Legion of Honour, is going to be appointed to a receivership."

There was a cry of surprise. They expected a small post.
Some of them tried to force a smile ; but, aided by the sight
of the table, the compliments again poured out profusely.

Sicardot once more begged for silence.

"Wait one moment," he resumed; "I have not finished.
Just one word. It is probable that our friend will remain
among us, owing to the death of Monsieur Peirotte."

Whilst the guests burst out into exclamations, Felicite felt
a shooting pain through her heart. Sicardot had already told
her of the receiver's death ; but, recalled to her mind at the com-
mencement of this triumphal dinner, this sudden and shocking
death affected her like a chilling wind. She remembered her
wish ; it was she who had killed this man. The guests were
celebrating the banquet with the tinkling music of the silver.
In the provinces, people eat very much and very noisily. After
the speech, the gentlemen all talked at once ; they showered
kicks upon the vanquished, flattered each other, and made dis-
paraging comments upon the absence of the marquis. It was
impossible, they said, to maintain intercourse with the nobility.
Eoudier even gave out that the marquis had begged to be ex-
cused because the fear of the insurgents had given him the
jaundice. At the second course they all scrambled like hounds
at the quarry. The oil- dealers and almond-dealers were
now saving France. They clinked glasses to the glory of the
Eougons. Granoux, very red, commenced to stammer, and
Vuillet very pale, was quite drunk ; but Sicardot continued
filling his glass, while Angele, who had already eaten too much,
was preparing some sugar and water for herself. The gentle-
men were so delighted at being rescued from their panic, and
were so glad to ■ find themselves assembled together again in
the yellow drawing-room, round a good table, in the bright
light of the two candelabra and the lustre — which they now
saw for the first time without its fly-specked cover — that they
gave way to an exuberance of folly and broad, coarse enjoy-

THE FOBTUNE OP THE EOUGONS. 315

ment. Their voices rose in the warm atmosphere, more thick
and eulogistic at every dish, embracing each other in the
middle of their compliments, going so far as to say — it was an
old retired master-tanner who hit upon this fine phrase — that
the dinner was a " veritable feast of LucuUus."

Pierre was radiant, and his big pale face perspired with
triumph. Felicite, already disciplined to her new station in
life, said that they would probably rent poor Monsieur
Peirotte's house until they could purchase one of their own in
the new town, and she was already placing her future furniture
in the receiver's rooms. She was entering into possession of her
Tuileries. At one moment she seemed to be seized by a sudden
recollection ; she rose and went to whisper in Aristide's ear :
" And Silvere ? '' she inquired.

The young man started with surprise at the question.
*' He is dead," he replied in a whisper. " I was there when
the gendarme blew his brains out with a pistol."

Felicite slightly shuddered in her turn. She was just open-
ing her mouth to ask her son why he had not prevented this
murder by claiming the child ; but she said nothing, she stood
there speechless. Aristide, who had read the question on her
quivering lips, whispered :

"You understand, I said nothing — so much the worse
for him ! I did quite right. It's a good riddance."

This brutal frankness displeased Felicite. Aristide had his
skeleton, then, like his father and mother. He would certainly
not have confessed so openly that he was strolling about the
Faubourg and had allowed his cousin to be shot, had not the
wine from the Hotel de Provence and the dreams he was
building upon his approaching arrival in Paris, made him
forget his habitual cunning. The words once spoken, he swung
himself to and fro on his chair. Pierre, who followed the
conversation between his wife and son from a distance, under-
stood and exchanged a glance of complicity to implore silence.
It was the last blast of terror, as it were, which blew over the
Rougons, in the midst of the splendour and enthusiastic merri-
ment of the table. On going to resume her seat, Felicite
observed a taper burning behind a window on the other side
of the street. Some one was watching the body of Monsieur
Peirotte, which had been brought back in the morning from
Sainte-Roure. She sat down, feeling the taper behind her hot
against her back. But the gaiety and mirth were increasing,

316 THE FORTUNE OP THE ROUGONS.

and the yellow drawing-room was filled with a shout of joy
when the dessert appeared.

At that moment, the Faubourg was still shuddering at the
drama which had just stained the Aire Saint-Mittre with
blood. The return of the troops, after the carnage in the plain
of the Nores, was marked by the most cruel reprisals. Men
were felled behind a bit of a wall with the butt-ends of rifles,
others had their brains blown out at the bottom of a ravine by
a gendarme's pistol. In order that terror might impose
silence, the soldiers strewed the dead along the high road.
One might have followed them by the red trace which they left
behind. It was one long butchery. At every halting-place, a
few insurgents were massacred. Two of them were killed at
Sainte-Boure, three at Orcheres, one at Beage. AVhen the
troops were encamped at Plassans, on the Nice road, it was
decided that one more of the prisoners, the most guilty, should
be shot. The victors judged it wise to leave this fresh corpse
behind, in order to inspire the town with respect for the new-born
Empire. But the soldiers were weary of killing ; no one offered
himself for the fatal task. The prisoners, thrown down on the
beams in the timber-yard as though on a camp bed, bound two
and two together by the hands, listened and waited in a state
of weary, resigned stupor.

At that moment the gendarme Bengade roughly opened a way
through the crowd of curious idlers. As soon as he had learned
that the troops were returning with several hundred insurgents,
he got out of bed, shivering with fever, and risking his life in
the cold, black December night. Outside, his wound re-
opened, the bandage which covered his eyeless socket was
stained with blood, and red streams flowed over his cheek and
moustache. He iQoked frightful in his dumb fury, his
pale face enveloped in a blood-stained bandage, as he ran along
closely scrutinising the face of each of the prisoners. He
followed the beams thus, bending down, going to and
fro, making the most stoical persons shudder at his abrupt
appearance. And, all on a sudden :

" Ah ! the bandit, I've got him ! " he cried.

He had just laid his hand on Silvere's shoulder. Silvere,
crouching down on a beam, with lifeless and expressionless
face, was looking straight before him into the pale twilight,
with a calm, stupefied air. Since his departure from Sainte-
Roure, he had worn this vacant stare. Along the high road,

THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 317

for many a league, whenever the soldiers urged on the march
of the convoy with the butt-ends of their rifles, he had been as
gentle as a child. Covered with dust, and dying with thirst
and fatigue, he trudged onward without saying a word, like
one of those docile animals driven in flocks by the cowherd's
whip. He was thinking of Miette. He saw her laid out on
the banner, under the trees, her ej'es turned upwards. For
three days past he saw^ nothing but her. At this moment, in
the midst of the growing darkness, he still saw her.

Rengade turned towards the officer, who had not been able
to find among the soldiers the requisite men for an execution.

" This villain put my eye out," he said, pointing to
Silvere. *' Hand him over to me. It's as good as done for 3'ou."

The officer, without replying, drew back with an air of in-
difference, making a vague gesture. The gendarme under-
stood that the man was surrendered to him.

'* Come, get up ! " he resumed,- as he shook him.

Silvere, like all the other prisoners, had a man chained to
him. He was fastened by the arm to a peasant of Poujols
named Mourgue, a man about fifty years old, transformed into
a brute by the scorching suns and the hard labour of tilling the
ground. Crook-backed already, his hands hardened, his face
coarse and heavy, he blinked his ej^es in a stupid manner, with
the stubborn, distrustful expression of an animal under the
lash. He had set out armed with a pitchfork, because all his
village were leaving ; but he could not have explained what
had thus set him adrift on the high roads. Since he had been
made prisoner, he understood it still less. He had some vague
idea that they were conveying him home. His amazement at
finding himself bound, the sight of all the people staring at
him, stunned and stupefied him still more. As he only spoke
and understood a patois, he could not imagine what the
gendarme wanted. He raised his coarse, heavy face towards
him with an effort ; then, fancying he was being asked the
name of his countrj^, he said in his hoarse voice :

" I come from Poujols."

A burst of laughter ran through the crowd, and some voices
cried :

" Release the peasant."

"Bah!" Rengade replied; "the more of this vermin
crushed the better. As they're together, they can both go."

There was a murmur.

318 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

The gendarme turned his terrible blood-stained face round,
and the busybodies slunk off. A little delicate gentleman
went awaj^, declaring that if he remained any longer it would
spoil his appetite for dinner. Some boys recognising Silvere,
began to speak of the red girl. Thereupon the little gentle-
man retraced his steps, in order to see the lover of the female
standard-bearer, of that creature who had been mentioned in
the " Gazette."

Silvere neither saw nor heard anything ; Rengade had to
seize him by the collar. Thereupon he got up, forcing
Mourgue to rise also.

" Come," said the gendarme. " It won't take long."

Silvere recognised the one-eyed man. He smiled. He must
have understood. Then he turned his head away. The sight
of the one-eyed man, of his moustache which the congealed
blood had stiffened as with an evil-looking rime, caused him a
profound grief. He would have wished to die in perfect tran-
quillity. He avoided the gaze of Rengade's one eye, which
glared from beneath the whiteness of the bandage. Of his own
accord, the young man proceeded to the end of the Aire
Saint-Mittre, to the narrow lane hidden by the piles of planks.
INIourgue followed him.

The deserted place stretched out under the sallow sky, from
which the copper-coloured clouds shed a murky light. Never
had this bare expanse — this wood-yard witli its slumbering
timber, looking stiff and rigid in the cold — worn such a melan-
choly aspect in the sad, lingering twilight. Along the high
road, the prisoners, the soldiers, and the mob disappeared amid
the darkness of the trees. But this piece of ground, with its
joists and piles of planks, grew pale under the fading light,
assuming a muddy tint that vaguely resembled a dried-up
torrent. The sawyers' trestles, profiling their meagre frame-
work in a corner, took the form of a gallows, or of the upright
beams of a guillotine. There was not a living soul excepting
three gipsies who showed their affrighted heads at the door of
their van — an old man and woman, and a big' girl with woolly
hair, whose eyes gleamed like those of wolves.

Before gaining the alley, Silvere looked round him. He
bethought himself of a far away Sunday when he had passed
through the wood-j^ard in the bright moonlight. How
calm and soft it was ! — how slowly the pale rays passed over
the joists ! A supreme silence flowed down from the frozen

THE FOETUNE OF. THE E0UC40KS. 319

sky. Amid this silence, the woolly-haired gipsy girl was
singing' low in an unknown tongue. Then Silvere remembered
that that far-off Sunday was only eight days old. Eight days
ago he had come to bid adieu to Miette. How long it
seemed ! He felt as though he had not set foot in the wood-
yard for years. But when he reached the narrow alley,
his heart failed him. He recognised the odour of the grass,
the shadows of the planks, the holes in the wall. A bewail-
ing voice rose from all these objects. The alley stretched out
sad and lonely ; it seemed even longer to him ; he felt a cold
wind blowing there. This spot had aged cruelly. He saw
the wall eaten into by moss, the verdant carpet dried up by the
frost, the piles of timber rotted b}'- the rain. It was a perfect
devastation. The yellow twilight fell like a fine dust upon
these ruins of all that was most dear to him. He was obliged
to close his eyes, and he again beheld the green lane, while
his happy hours opened to his view. He was racing with
Miette in the warm air. Then the cruel December rains fell
unceasingly, but they still came there, sheltering themselves
beneath the planks, as they listened with rapture to the plash-
ing of the shower. His whole life — all his happiness — passed
before him like a flash of lightning. Miette was climbing over
the wall, running to him, shaking with ringing laughter. She
was there; he could see her, gleaming white through the
darkness, with her coquettish cap and her ink-black hair. She
was talking about magpies' nests, which are so difficult to steal,
as she dragged him along. Then he heard the gentle murmurs
of the Viorne in the distance, the chirping of the belated grass-
hoppers, and the wind blowing among the poplars in the
meadows of Saint-Claire. And how they used to run, too !
How well he remembered it! She had learnt to swim in a
fortnight. She was a plucky girl. She had only one great
fault: she was too miich inclined to pilfering. But he
would have cured her of that. The thought of their first
embraces brought him back to the narrow alley. They
were always pleased with this nook. He fancied he caught
the dying song of the gipsy girl, the creaking of the last
shutters, the solemn stroke from the clocks. Then the hour
of separation was ringing, and Miette was remounting the wall,
throwing him a kiss. And he saw her no more. A terrible
choking seized him by the throat: he would never see her
ae:ain — never.

320 THE FOETUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

" When you're ready," jeered the one-eyed man ; " come,
choose your place."

Silvere went a few steps further. He was approachmg" the
end of the alley, and could see nothing* but a strip of sky
where the rust-coloured light was fading- away. There he had
passed his life for two years. The slow approach of death
added an ineffable charm to this path which had served so long
for a lovers' walk. He loitered, bidding a long and lingering
adieu to all he loved ; the grass, the pieces of wood, the stones
of the old wall, those things into which Miette had breathed
life. Again his thoughts wandered. They were waiting till
they were old enough to be married. Aunt Dide would remain
with them ! Ah ! if they had fled far away, very far away, to
some unknown village, where the scamps of the Faubourg
would no longer have been able to come and cast Chantegreil's
crime in his daughter's face ! What peaceful bliss ! they would
have opened a wheelwright's work-shop on the side of some
high road. Indeed, he cared very little for his ambitions now;
he longed no more for coachmaking, for those carriages with
large varnished panels as glossy as mirrors. In the stupor of
his despair he could not remember why his dream of bliss
could never be realised. Why did he not go away with Miette
and aunt Dide ? As he racked his memory, he heard the sound
of a sharp fusillade ; he saw a standard fall before him, the staff
broken and the banner drooping like the wing of a bird brought
down by a shot. It was the Republic falling into a sleep with
Miette under a fold of the red banner. Ah, misery! they were
both dead with bleeding wounds in their breasts. It was that
which barred the path of his life — the corpses of his two loves.
He had no longer anything left, and now he could die. These
were the thoughts that had made him so gentle, so listless, so
rambling on the way from Sainte-Eoure. The soldiers might
have struck him, and he would not have felt it. His spirit was
no longer inhabiting his body. It was far away under the
trees, kneeling beside the lifeless objects of his love, in the
midst of the pungent smoke of the gunpowder.

The one-eyed man was growing impatient ; he pushed
Mourgue, who was lagging behind, and growled :

*' Get along, do ; I don't want to be here all night."

Silvere stumbled. He looked at his feet. A fragment of a
skull lay white in the grass. He thought he heard voices
whispering in the alley. The dead were calling him, those

THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS. 321

long" departed ones, whose warm breath had so strangely
perturbed him and his sweetheart- during the July evenings.
He recognised their hushed whispers. They were rejoicing-,
they were calling to him to come, and promising to restore
Miette to him beneath the earth, in some retreat still more
quiet and sequestered even than this old trysting-place of
theirs. The cemetery, whose oppressive odours and blackened
vegetation had breathed an eager desire into the children's
hearts, as it alluringly spread out its couches of lush grass,
powerless to drive them into each other's arms, was now long-
ing to drink in Silvere's warm blood. For two summers it
had been expecting the young lovers.

" Is it here ? " the one-eyed man asked.

The young man looked in front of him. He had reached the
end of the alley. He started as his eyes encountered the tomb-
stone. Miette was right, that stone was for her. " Here lieth
. . . Marie . . . died . . " She was dead, the
mass was rolled over her. His strength failing him, he leant
against the frozen stone. How warm it used to be, as they sat
on a corner of it, chatting for many a long evening ! She used
to come that way, stepping on a corner of the stone in order
to get off the wall. There was still some lingering trace of her
left by the touch of her lissom figure. It seemed to him that
there were signs of fatalism in all these objects, and that the
stone was there that he might come back to die where he
had loved.

The one-eyed man cocked his pistols.

Death ! death ! this thought fascinated Silvere. It was to
this place, then, that they were conducting him, by that long
white road which descends from Sainte-Roure to Plassans. If
he had known it, he would have hastened on more quickly to
die on that stone, at the end of the narrow alley, in that
atmosphere where he could still feel Miette's breath ! Never
had he hoped for such consolation in his grief. Heaven was
merciful. He waited, a vague smile playing on his face.

Mourgue, in the meantime, had caught sight of the pistols.
Hitherto he had allowed himself to be dragged along stupidly.
But fear now seized him. He repeated, in a tone of despair :

" I come from Poujols, I come from Poujols ! "

He threw himself on the ground, rolling at the gendarme's
feet, breaking out into prayers for mercy, and imagining that
he was being mistaken for some one else.

822 THE FORTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

" What does it matter to me that you come from Poujols? '*
Eensrade muttered.

And as the wretched man, shivering and crying with terror,
and quite unable to understand why he was going to die, held
out his trembling hands — his deformed, hardened labourer's
hands — exclaiming in his patois that he had done nothing
and ought to be pardoned, the one-eyed man grew quite exas-
perated at being unable to put the pistol to his temple through
his moving so much.

" Will you hold your tongue ! " he shouted.

Thereupon Mourgue, mad with fright and unwilling to die,
began to howl like a beast, like a pig that is being slaughtered.

" Hold your tongue, you scoundrel ! " the gendarme re-
peated.

And he blew his brains out. The peasant fell with a thud.
His body rolled to the foot of a pile of planks, where it
remained doubled up. The violence of the shock had broken
the rope which fastened him to his companion. Silvere fell on
his knees before the tombstone.

With a refinement of vengeance, Rengade had killed
Mourgue first. He played with his second pistol, raising it
slowly in order to relish Silvere's agony. The latter looked at
him calmly. The sight of the man, whose fierce eye scorched
him, made him feel uneasy. He turned his gaze away, fearing
that he might die cowardly if he continued to see * this
man who was shaking with fever, with his blood-stained
bandage and bleeding moustache. As he raised his eyes, he
perceived Justin's head on the top of the wall, at the spot
where Miette used to leap over.

Justin was at the Porte de Rome, among the crowd, when
the gendarme had led the prisoners away. He had set off to
run as fast as he could, going round by way of the Jas-Meiffren,
eager to witness the spectacle of the execution. The thought
that he alone, of all the Faubourg scamps, would see the
drama at his ease, as from a balcony, made him run so quickly
that he fell down twice. In spite of his wild chase, he arrived
too late to witness the first shot. He climbed up the mulberry
tree in despair ; but he smiled when he saw that Silvere still
remained. The soldiers had informed him of his cousin's
death, the murder of the wheelwright completed his happiness.
He awaited the shot with that delight which the suffer-
ings of others afforded him, a delight not unmixed with an

THE FORTUNE OF THE BOUGONS. 323

exquisite fear, but increased tenfold by the horror of the
scene.

Silvere, on recognising" that head all by itself on the top of the
wall, that vile blackguard, with his pale grinning- face, his hair
standing on end above his forehead, felt a fierce rage, a desire to
live. It was the last revolt of his blood, a momentary mutiny.
He sank down again on his knees, gazing straight before him.
A last vision passed before him in the melancholy twilight.
At the end of the alley, at the entrance of the Impasse
Saint-Mittre, he thought he perceived aunt Dide standing erect,
white and rigid as a saint in stone, witnessing his agony
from the distance.

At that moment he felt the cold pistol on his temple.
Justin's pale face was smiling. Silvere, closing his eyes, heard
the long-departed dead wildly calling him. In the darkness,
he saw nothing save Miette, wrapped round with the banner,
under the trees, her eyes turned towards heaven. Then the
one-eyed man fired, and all was over ; the lad's skull burst
open like a ripe pomegranate ; his face fell upon the stone,
with his lips glued to the spot that Miette's feet had used to
tread, that warm spot which still retained a trace of his dead
love.

And in the evening, at the Rougons' house, bursts of laug'hter
rose with the reek from the table, still warm with the remains
of the dinner. At last they were nibbling at the pleasures of
the wealthy ! Their appetites, sharpened by thirty years of
restrained desires, now fell to with wolfish teeth. These fierce
insatiate gluttons, scarce let loose upon indulgence, were exult-
ing in the birth of the Empire, -and the commencement of the
reign of the greedy victors. The Coup d'Etat, which retrieved
the fortune of the Bonapartes, laid the foundation for that of
the Rougons.

Pierre stood up and held out his glass as he said :
" I drink to Prince Louis, to the emperor ! "
The gentlemen, who had drowned their jealousies in
champagne, rose in a body and clinked glasses with deafening
shouts. It was a fine spectacle. The well-to-do citizens of Plas-
sans, Roudier, Granoux, Vuillet, and the others, wept and
embraced each other over the scarce cold corpse of the
Republic. But Sicardot conceived a crowning triumph. He
took from Felicite's hair a pink satin bow, which she had placed
over her right ear in honour of the occasion, cut off a piece of

324 THE FOKTUNE OF THE EOUGONS.

the satin with his dessert knife, and fastened it solemnly to
Rougon's button-hole. The latter feigned modesty. His face
beamed with joy, as he pretended to resist^ and he murmured :

" No, I beg- you, it is too soon. We must wait until the
issue of the decree."

" Zounds ! " Sicardot exclaimed, " will you be good enough
to keep that! It's an old soldier of Napoleon who decorates
you!"

The yellow drawing-room burst into applause. Felicite
was half swooning with delight. Silent Granoux jumped on a
chair in his enthusiasm, waving his napkin and making a
speech which was lost amid the uproar. The yellow drawing-
room was wild with triumph.

The strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre's button-hole was
not the only red spot in the Rougons' triumph. A shoe, with
a bloodstained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in the
adjoining room. The taper burning at Monsieur Peirotte's
bedside, over the way, gleamed with a lurid redness in the
midst of the night, like a gaping wound. And, far away, in
the depths of the Aire Saint-Mittre, a pool of blood was con-
gealing upon the tombstone.

THE END.

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September, 1886.

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MADAME BOVARY: Provincial Manners.

By GUSTAVE FLAUBERT.

Translated by Eleanor Marx-Aveling. "With an Introduction and Notes of the
proceedings against the author before the "Tribunal CoiToctionnel " of Paris,
M. EMILE ZOLA ON "MADAME BOVARY."

" The first characteristic of the naturalistic novel, of which ' Madame Bovary ' is the type is
the exact reproduction of life, the absence of every romantic element. The scenes themselves are
every day ones ; but the author has carefully sorted and balanced them in such a way as to make
his work a monument of art and science. It is a true picture of life presented to us in an admira-
bly selected frame. All extraordinary inventioa is therefore banished from it. One no longer
encounters in its pages children marked at their birth, then lost, to be found again in the last
chapter ; nor secret drawers containing documents which come to light at the right moment for
the purpose of saving persecuted innocence. In fact all intrigue, even the simplest, is absent.
The story marches straight on, relating events day by day, harbouring no stuprise ; and,' when it is
finished, it is as though, after being as it were out in the world, you had regained your'home.

"The whole of 'Madame Bovary,' even in its .slightest incidents, possesses a heartreading
interest— a new interest, unknown prior to the appearance of this book— the interest of reality
of the drama of daily life. It grips your very vitals with aji invincible power, like some scene
you have witnessed, some event which is actually happening before your eyes. The personages
of the story are among your acquaintances, you have assisted at their proceedings twenty times
over. You are in your own sphere in this work, and all that transpires is even dependent upon
your surroundings. It is this which causes such profound emotion. But there is also to be added
the prodigious art of the writer. Throughout, the tone is of an absolute exactitude. The arrimge-
ment of the action is continuous as it would be in reality, without a digression due to imagination
without the slighest kind of invention. The life, the colouring, succeed in creating the illusion'
The writer accomplishes the prodigy of disappearing completely, and yet making his great art
everywhere felt."

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE ON " MADAME BOVARY."

" Flaubert is among the first of social realists. He addresses himself ;iImost avowedly to the
senses and not to the feelings. He treats of love in its physiological aspects, and indulges in the
minutest analysis of the grosser corporeal sensations. In "intelligence and accompli.shmenfc^ as
well as literary skill, he was no ordinary man. He had read much and studied profoundly ; he had
travelled far, keepmg his eyes open, and had made some reputation in certain blanches of 'science.
" Flaubert wrote his great masterpiece 'Madame Bovary' deliberately in his maturity and
the notoriety which carried him with it into the law-courts^ made him a martyr in a societv t^t
was by no means fastidious. Seldom before has an author concentrated such care and thought on
a single work. Each separate chapter is wrought out with an exactness of elaboration to which

Yet it is clear in the retrospect that the effects have been foreseen, and we ackaowledge in the
end the vivid impressions the author has made on us.

" Flaubert proposes to set the truth before everything, and we presume he does so to the best
of his conviction. He goes to his work as cruelly and imperturbably as the Scotch surgeon in
the purate ship, who is said to have claimed a negro as his share of the spoil, that he might practise
on the wretch in a series of operations." , & *- --^

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SALAMBO.

By GUSTAVE FLAUBERT.
Tkanslated feom the FRENCH **:ii:dition definitive " by J. S. CHARTRES,

AND PREFACED BY AN EsSAY ON FlaTJBERT's WoRKS.

Press Opinions on Mr. J. S. Chartres's Translation of" SalamlDo."

" yome little while ago there was putlished an extraordinary bad translation of Flaubert's
' Salanibo' [by M. French Sheldon]. By some means (there are so many of these means) it was
puffed as even in our time few if any books so bad have been puffed. Names of all sorts and
conditions of men ('the highest authorities in the land,' said the advertisement) were pressed
into its service. ^Vnd hand in hand with the puflBng went some dark warnings against other
possible translations, which would inevitably be spurious, infamous, and I know not what else.
The reason of this warning is now clear. Another traclsation has appeared, done by Mr. J. S.
Chartres, and published by Vizetelly, which is much superior to its predecessor." — The World.

'' We are able to declare that this second translation, the work of Mr. Chartres. and
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The beginning of ' Salambo ' is a very good test passage. ... It is hardly necessary to ask which
of the two is nearest to the French. Turn over the page and an abundance of equally instructive
parallel passages are to be fo\ind."—Sa.turda7/ Revieic.

" After being made the subject of an indifferent translation, Salambo has now been dealt with
by a master of the literary art, who has produced such a version of the great Carthaginian
romance as Flaubert himself might have been delighted with. Why, one cannot help asking, ha
the good wine been thus kept to the last? "St. James's Gazette.

"We said something about the singularly ineificient translation of 'Salambo' by Mrs.
Sheldon, which excited a still more singular revival et the almost defunct art of puffery. Of the
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" As regards the translator's work, which is allowed on all hands to have been a very arduous
task, there is httle or no reason to doubt that a good, faithful, and readable rendering has been
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the story ; it contains criticisms of the romance at its first appearance, and replies made to them
by the author. This course was honest, wise, and satisfactory." — Illustrated London Netvs.

" The present volume brought out by Messrs. Vizetelly quite deserves the adjective scholarly
Whenever this enterprising firm undertakes a translation it is generally executed in a way above
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SAPPHO : Parisian Manners.

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"Alone in the little garden of the restaurant they were kissing each other and eating their
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their table was set out, a l(<ud and baiittjring voice was heard : ' I say, there, when j'ou've done

billing and cooing ,' and the leoniue face and ruddy beard of Caoudal the sculptor appeared

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A DRAMA IN MUSLIN.

By GEORGE MOORE.
Author of "A Mummer's Wife," "A Modern Lover," &c.

" Mr. George Moore has already proved liis right to be considered one of the conspicuous
novelists of the day. He can depict human beings in an original and consistent fashion; he can
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constructed, and full of human interest." — Athencekm.

"Mr. George Moore's work stands on a very much higher plane than the facile fiction of the
circulating libraries. Its purpose is good (for it is a novel with a purpose) and the essentials of its
matter are good. The hideous comedy of the maiTiage-market has been a stock topic with
novelists from Thackeray downwards ; but Mr. Moore goes deep into the yet more hideous tragedy
which forms its afterpiece, the tragedy of enforced stagnant celibacy, with its double catastrophe
of disease and vice. The characters are drawn with patient care, and with a power of individual-
isation which marks the born novelist. It is a serious, powerful, and in many respects edifying
book."— Pa7i Mall Gazette.

" Mr. Moore has the full courage of his opinions ; he is true to them and to himself ; and he
has this excuse for making details paramount, that he has a talent of the very highest order for
observation and reproduction ; even for creating them where experience is lacking. Alice and
Olive Barton, May Gould, and Violet Scully are subjected to the dissecting knife cruelly and
unpleasantly ; but then morbid anatomy is the author's metier, and vivisection cannot be per-
formed without much that is disagreeable The novel is an exceptionally briUiant outcome

from an intensely objectionable school." — Graphic.

" Mr. Thackeray may sermonise over his Amelias and Charlottes, but Mr. Moore knows what
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GERMINIE LACERTEUX.

By EDMOND and JULES DE GONCOUET.

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" ' Germinie Lacerteux ' fixes a date in our contemporary literature. For the first time
the lower classes are studied by writers who are masters of observation and style. And I repeat
it is not a question of a more or less interesting story, but of a complete lesson of moral and
physical anatomj'. The novelist throws a woman on to the slab of the amphitheatre, the first
wo'man that comes to his hand, the servant girl crossing the street with her apron on ; he
patiently dissects her, shows each muscle, gives full play to the nerves, seeks for causes and
relates results ; and this suffices to uncover a whole bleeding corner of humanity. The reader
feels the sobs rising in his throat, and it happens that this dissection becomes a heartrending
spectacle, full of the highest morality."

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A CRUEL ENIGMA, j A LOVE CRIME.

By PAUL BOUKGET. By PAUL BOURGET.

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DISENCHANTMENT.

By F. MABEL EOBIXSON".

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

" ' Disenchantment ' is a novel of considerable power. There is not one of the characters which
does not become more and more an actual man or woman as oas turns the pages. . . . The
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It is not often that a young writer creates and vividly portrays three characters so strong and so
fine as Philip Preston, his brother John, and Delia Mayne." — The Athenreirm.

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CRIME AND PUNISHMENT.

A RUSSIAN REALISTIC NOVEL.
By FEDOR DOSTOIEFFSKY.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

The Athenaeum.
" Outside Russia the name of Fedor Dostoieffsky was till lately almost unkno\vTi. Yet DostoiefTsky
is one of the most remarkable of modern writers, and his book, ' Crime and Punishment,' is one
of the most moving of modern novels. It is the story of a murder and of the punishment which
dogs the murderer ; and its effect is unique in fiction. It is realism, but such realism as M. Zola
and his followers do not dream of. The reader knows the personages— strange, grotesque, terrible
personages they are — more intimately than if he had been years with them in the flesh. He is con-
.straiued to live their lives, to suffer their tortures, to scheme and resist with them, exidt with
them, weep and laugh and despair with them ; he breathes the very breath of their nostrils, and with
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Pall Mall Gazette.

•' The figures in the grand, gloomy picture are a handful of men and women taken haphazard from
the crowd of the Russian capital. They are nearly all poor. The central figure in the novel is one
of those impecunious "students," the outcomes of whose turbulent brains have often been a curse
where they were intended to be a blessing to their country. He appears everywhere ; is never ovit
of sight in the scenes, vibrating between the highest heights and deepest depths of life. The

character of Sonia is drawn with consummate skill. She is a figure of tragic pathos A

strange fascination attracts Raskolnikoff to seek her out in her own lodgings, a bare little room in
an obscure street of St. Petersburg ; and there, in the haunt of impurity and sin, the harlot and the
assassin meet together to read the story of Lazarus and Dives. In that same den Rodia confesses
liis crime, and, in anguish almost too deep for words, the outcast girl implores the criminal, for
God's sake, to make atonement. The subtle skill with which the various sharacters are delineated
make ' Crime and Punishment,' one of the most interesting and curious psychological studies of
modem fiction. Sometimes a beautiful poem in prose, in the shape of a dream that is told, lightens;
up the scene with a golden brightness of sunlight that now and then recalls the best passages in
the novels of Turgenieff."

The Spectator.

*' There are three Russian novelists who, though, with one exception, little known out of their own
country, stand head and shoulders above most of their contemporaries. In the opinion of some not
indifferent critics, they are superior to all other novelists of this generation. Two of them,
Dostoieffsky and Turgenieff, died not long ago, the third, Lyof Tolstoi, still lives. The one with the
most marked individuality of character, probably the most highly gifted, was unquestionably
Dostoiett'sky. In our opinion his finest work is ' Crime and Punishment.' Though never Zolaesque,
Dostoiiiffsky is intensely realistic, calls a spade a spade with the most uncompromising frankness.
He describes sin in its niost hideous shapes ; yet he is full of tenderness and loving-kindness for its
victims, and shows us that even the most abandoned are not entirely bad, and that for all there is
hope— hope of redemption and regeneration. Dostoieffsky sounded the lowest depths of human
nature, and wrote with the power of a master. None but a Russian and a genius could draw such u
character as Rodia Raskolnikofl", who has been aptly named the ' Hamlet of the Madhouse.' "

The Academy.

" Raskolnikoff, the St. Petersburg student-hero of this story, who finds his guardian angel in

Sonia, a poor girl, whom the poverty of her family and the drunkenness of her father have driven

into the streets, is not bad in the ordinary sense of the word. He is only mad and poor, and given

to what he calls psychology, and, in a frenzy of madness, privation, and philosophy, he murders a

female usurer and her sister Besides Raskolnikoff and Sonia, the chief characters in

' Crime and Punishment ' are his mother, his sister, and her three lovers— Razoumikhin, a fellow
student, Looshin, a low-minded official, and Svidrigailoff, a wild sensualist. These three last,
especially Razoumikhin, who is a sort of Russian George Warrington, are ably drawn. There are
many passionate scenes in the book, one of them, between Svidrigailoff and Raskolnikofl's sister,
in which the latter fires at her lover with a revolver, is sketched with great, and, indeed, revolting,
power. Nor is 'Crime and Punishment' devoid of humour, or of almost Juvenalian satire, upon
the present condition of society in Russia."

VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &-> NEW EDITIONS. 7

Some Press Opinions on Fedor Dostoieffsky's " Crime and Punishment.*'

The World.
"The publisher has done much better work in publishing 'Crime akd Pukishmekt, a trans-
lation of Dostoieffsky's much-praised novel— a little over-praised, perhaps, and nota little brutal (in
the literary sense of the epithet), but a strong thing, beyond all question."

Westminster Review.
" 'Crime axd Puxishmekt' is powerful, and not without a certain weird fascination."

Tlie Literary World.
" Fedor Dostoieffsky's strange and startling novel, " Crime and Punishment," has some
wonderfully effective writing in it. Contrary to the habit of most novelists, the author at once
initiates the reader into the secret of the murder committed by Raskolnikoff, on which the whole
story hangs, but leaves the characters in the book to fathom the mystery. It is the story of a
life, not ignoble by nature, but one that has become warped and morose, partly through natural
indolence, partly through poverty and misfortune, until it is eventually driven to commit a crime.
The hero's remorse and subsequent expiation are forcibly portrayed, and we follow with intense
interest the alternative stages of his complete mental prostration, defiant callousness, and
hj'sterical excitement, until at length, urged by Sonia, the poor girl who is devoted to him, and
to whom he has confessed his crime, his better nature triumphs. The author displays a keen,
shrewd insight into the Russian character, and the curious mixture of child-like simplicity, deep
cunning, utter brutality, and generous kind-heartedness so peculiar to the Muscovite proper, are
essentially true to life. Even the minor characters are well described, and it tells well for the
author's skiU in narration that, although we have not much sympathy with any single individual
in the tale, we feel compelled to read on to the end."

Now Readtj. In crown Svo, with Portrait and Memoir. price os.
INJURY AND INSULT. By Fedor Dostoieffsky.

Translated from the Original Russian by F. Whishaw.

To be followed by

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, & THE GAMBLER.
THE IDIOT. THE BROTHERS KARAMASOFF.

UNCLE'S DREAM, & THE PERMANENT HUSBAND.

THE NOVELS OF COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI.

Count Lyof Tolstoi presents us with spirited and felicitous studies of the intrigues prevalent
in the highest spheres of Russian society, and of their centre of gravitation, the Court. Herein
he is in his native element ; he has seen both the court and the army — has held a position at the

one the .same as in the other Count Tolstoi amuses himself in taking every part of

the human puppet to pieces. Never yielding to emotion, this doctor at every minute of the day
is feeling the pulses of all whom he meets, and coldly noting the state of their moral health." —
Vistio unt de Voyii i.

Now Ready. In crown Sro, 5*. each volume
" War and Peace " Series :

1. BEFORE TILSIT. 2. THE INVASION.

3. THE FRENCH AT MOSCOW.

In crown Svo. icith a Portrait and Memoir of Count Tolstoi. price 5.y.

CHILDHOOD, BOYHOOD, AND YOUTH.

^A"^ A

fNi

l-^.

^_./j':. " ^

.^

W%^

v^

"tM-

THE MERMAID SERIES.

I lie and dream of your sweet Mermaid wine."

Master Francis BeaJimont to Ben Jonson.

Preparing for Publication,

An Unexpurgated Edition of

THE BEST PLAYS •

OF

THE OLD DRAMATISTS,

Under the General EorroRSHir of HAVELOCK ELLIS,

In half-crown monthly vols., post 8vo, each vol. containing about 400 pages,
bound in cloth with cut or uncut edges.

LTHOUGH a strong and increasing interest is felt to-day in the great
Elizabethan dramatists who are grouped around Shakspere, no satisfac-
tory attempt has hitherto been made to bring their works before the
public in a really popular manner. With the exception of such monu-
mental and for most readers inaccessible editions as those of Dyce and
Bullen, they have either been neglected or brought out in a mutilated and
inadequate form. Some of the most delightful of them, such as Middleton
and Thomas Heywood, and even Beaumont and Fletcher are closed to all^
the few, and none of them are obtainable in satisfactory editions at
moderate prices. In the Mermaid Series it is proposed to issue the finest
examples of the Elizabethan Drama, those which, with Shakspere's works, con-
stitute the chief contribution of the English spirit to the literature of the world.

The Mermaid Series will appear in' half-crown monthly volumes, two of which
will be published during November. The Editors who have promised their assist-
ance to the undertaking include men of literary eminence, who have already distinguished
themselves in this field, as well as younger writers of ability. The first volume will contain

VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS, 9

a general introduction by Mr. J. A. Symonds, dealing with the Elizabethan Drama
generally, as the chief expression of English national life at one of its points of greatest
p)OV.'er and expansion.

Each volume will contain on an average five complete Plays, prefaced by an Intro-
ductory Notice of the Author. Great care will be taken to ensure, by consultation among
the Editors, that the Plays selected are in every case the best and most representative — and
not the most conventional, or those which have lived on a merely accidental and traditional
reputation. A feature will be made of plays by little known writers, which although often
so admirable are now almost inaccessible. The names of the Editors will be sufficient
guarantee for the quality of the selection. In every instance the utmost pains will be taken
to secure the best text, the spelling will be modernised, and brief but adequate notes
supplied.

In no case will the Plays undergo any process of expurgation. It is believed that,
although they may sometimes run counter to what is called modem taste, the free and
splendid energy of Elizabethan art, with its extreme realism and its extreme idealism —
embod>-ing, as it does, the best traditions of the English Drama — will not suffer from the
frankest representation.

Carefully etched Portraits of those Dramatists of whom authentic portraits exist
will be given as frontispieces to the various volumes, and every pains will be taken to
ensure typographical accuracy and excellence, and to produce the series in a satisfactory
manner in every respect.

The following is the proposed Order of Puhlieation —

MARLOWE. Edited by Havelock Ellis. With a General
Introduction by J. A. Symonds.

MASSINGER. Edited by Arthur Symons.

MIDDLETON. With an Introduction by A. C. Swinburne.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER (2 vols.). Edited by J. St.

LoE Strachey.
WEBSTER AND CYRIL TOURNEUR. Edited by J. A.

Symonds.

SHIRLEY. Edited by Edmund Gosse.

DEKKER. Edited by ERNESt Rhys.

ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM and other Plays attributed to
Shakspere. Edited by Arthur Symons.

THOMAS HEYWOOD. Edited by J. A. Symonds.

FORD. Edited by Havelock Ellis.

To be followed by BEN JONSON (2 vols.), CHAPMAN,
MARSTON, WTLLIAM ROWLEY and FIELD,
DRYDEN, OTWAY, LEE, CONGREVE, &c.

lo VIZETELLY &^ CO:S NEW BOOKS &^ NEW EDITIONS.

NEW STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CHEYELEY NOYELS."
In Crown 8vo, attractively bound, price Zs. 6d.

HIS CHILD FRIEND.

By the Author of "A Modern Minister," *'Saul Weir," &c.

" Is told tenderly and with graphic skill. All the characters are well and truthfully drawn."
— Acadevij/.

A STORY OF THE STAGE.

In Croivn 8vo, with eight tinted page engravings, price 2s. Qd.

SAVED BY A SMILE.

By JAMES SIREE.

Second Edition. In crown Svo, icith page engravings, price 2s. Qd.

MY FIRST CRIME.

By G. MAC]^, former " Chef de la Surety " of the Paris Police.

*' An account by a real Lecoq of a real crime is a novelty among the mass of criminal
novels with which the world has been favoured since the death of the great originator Gaboriau.
It is to M. Mac^, who has had to deal with real ju;7es d' in struct ion, real agents de la surete, and real
jcnurderers, that we are indebted for this i-eally interesting addition to a species of literature
^'hich has of late begun to pall." — Saturday Revieu.

A BOOK FOR THE PRESENT CRISIS.

Secoiul Edition. In crovyii Svo, paper cover, price \s., or cloth, \s. 6d.

IRISH HISTORY FOR ENGLISH READERS.

By WILLIAM STEPHENSON GREGG.

" The history is one that every Englishman ottghi to read. As an outline to be filled up by
wider reading it is an admirable little book." — Literary World.

Shortly vdll he published in Shilling Volumes, with picture cover,

CAPITAL STORIES.

The Earlier Volumes will Include :

THE CHAPLAIN'S SECRET, by leon de tinseau.
AVATAR. By theophile gautier.

{The above work evidently suggested " Doctor Jchjll and Mr. Hyde^)

COLONEL QUAGG'S CONVERSION; and Other Stories.

By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.

THE MONKEYS' REVENGE, by leon gozlan.

THE MARCHIONESS'S TEAM, by leon de tinseau.

VIZETELLY ^ CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS, ii
MR. E. C. GRENVILLE-MURRAY'S WORKS.

Second Edition, in post 8vo, 434 pp., with numerous Page and other EngrctvingSf

handsoriuly hound, price \Qs. 6c?.

IMPRISONED IN A SPANISH CONVENT:

AN ENGLISH GIRL'S EXPERIENCES.

" Intensely fascinating. The «;j)o«e is a remarkable one, and as readable as remarkable." —
Society.

" Excellent specimens of their author in his best and brightest mood." — Athenaum.

*' Highly dramatic." — Scotsman. '• Strikingly interesting." — Literaiy World.

" Instead of the meek couing dove with naked feet and a dusty face who had talked of dying
for me, I had now a bright-eyed rosy-cheeked companion who had cambric pocket-handkerchiefs
with violet scent on them and smoked cigarettes on the sly."— Pa^e 75.

New and Cheaper Edition, Two Vols, large post Svo, attractively hound, price 15s,

UNDER THE LENS: SOCIAL PHOTOGRAPHS.

ILLUSTRATED WITH ABOUT 300 ENGRAVINGS BY WELL-KNOWN ARTISTS.

CONTENTS : — JILTS — ADVENTURERS AND ADVENTURESSES - HONOURABLE
GENTLEMEN (M.P.s)-PUBLIC SCHOOLBOYS AND UNDERGRADUATES— SPENDTHRIFTS
—SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN— ROUGHS OF HIGH AND LOW DEGREE.

" Brilliant, highly-coloured sketches. . . . containing beyond doubt some of the best writing
that has come from Mr. Grenville-Mxirray's pen."— Sf. Jaines'* Gazette.

" Limned audaciously, unsparingly, and with much ability." — World,

" Distinguished by their pitiless fidelity to nature." — .Society.

Jin PHO E^5.C»

At the Eton and Harrow Cricket Match : from ** UNDER THE LENS.

VIZETELLY 5- CO:S NEW BOOKS ^ NEW EDITIONS, i
MR. E. C. G RENVILLE-MURRAY'S ^O^Y.S— continued.

Seventh Edition, in post 8vo, handsomely hounds price Is. U.

SIDE-LIGHTS ON ENGLISH SOCIETY:

^feftdjc^ from Eife, Social auTJ Satirical.

ILLUSTRATED WITH NEARLY 300 CHARACTERISTIC ENGRAVINGS.
CONTENTS :-FLIRTS. - ON HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE. - SEMI-
DETACHED WIVES-NOBLE LORDS.-YOUNG WIDOWS.-OUR SILVERED YOUTH,
OR NOBLE OLD BOYS.

" This is a startling book. The volume is expensively and elaborately got up ; the writing is
bitter, imsparing, and extremely clever."- Fanityi^air. , , ,

"Afr Grenville-Mun-ay sparkles very steadily throughout the present volume and puts to

1, n; n JpSnromm?able knowledge of life and manners, of men and cities, of appearances
!jffLts (^i hS ^vS^^ ulon English types, I shaU only remark that they are

tJmiantly and daigly written, curious as to their matter, and admirably readable -Tr^^^-

..XT. V.r,« ^.,Ti ni,P<5tinn the brilliancy of the sketches, nor affirm that ' Side-Lights is aught but
a fa^Latog^ok ! . ^ ^e^o\ il destined to make a great noise in the ^-orl^" -WhiieMU

Review.

T?iird Edition, with Frontispiece and Vignette, price 3s. 6d.

HIGH LIFE IN FRANCE UNDER THE

REPUBLIC :

SOCIAL AND SATIRICAL SKETCHES IN PARIS AND THE PROVINCES.

" Take this book as it stands, with the limitations imposed upon its author by circumstances,

and it^ S found very enjoyable The volume is studded with shrewd observations on

French Ufe at the present day. '■—Si>€c<aior. . , , .^ , ^ t:^. u • xv •

" A very clever and entertaining series of social and satirical sketches, almost French in their
point and vivacity."— Co'ifmporca-i/ iJefieiv. ., . . ^ „ ^ a ^ a- "

" A most amusing book, and no less instructive if read with allowances and understanding.
'iy(ff]xl

" Full of the caustic humour and graphic character-painting so characteristic of Mr. Grenville-
Murrav^ work and dealing trenchantly yet lightly with almost every conceivable phase of
'ocial.poUtical,' official, journalistic and theatrical life. "-5oafl(y.

14 VIZE TELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS.

MR. E. C. GRENVILLE-MURRAY'S '^ORY.S-cmtinued.

Second Edition, in large Svo, tastefully hound, with gilt edges, price IO5. 6d.

FORMING A HANDSOME VOLUME FOR A PRESENT.

PEOPLE I HAVE MET.

Illustrated with 54 tinted Page Engravings, from Designs hy Fred. Barnard,

CONTENTS : —

The Old Earl.
The Dowager.
The Family Solicitor.
The College Don.
The Rich Widow.

The Rector.
The Curate.
The Governess.
The Tutor.
The Promising Son.

The Doctor.

The Retired Colonel.

The Chaperon.

The Usurer.

The Spendthrift.

The Ornamental Director. The Favourite Daughter. Le Nouveau Riche.
The Old Maid. The Squii'e. The Maiden Aunt.

The Bachelor.
The Younger Son.
The Grandmother.
The Newspaper Editor.
The Butler.
The Devotee.

THE RICH WIDOW (reduced from the original engraving.)

" Mr. Grenville-Murray's pages sparkle with cleverness and with a shrewd wit, caustic or
cynical at times, but by no means excluding a due appreciation of the softer virtues of women
and the sterner excellences of men. The talent of the artist (Mr. Barnard) is akin to that of the
author, and the result of the combination is a book that, once taken up. can hardly be laid down
until the last page is perused." — Spectator.

" All of Mr. Grenville-Murray's portraits are clever and life-like, and some of them are not
unworthy of a model who was more before the author's ej'es than Addison — namely, Thackeray."
—Truth.

" Mr. Grenville-Murray's sketches are genuine studies, and are the best things of the kind
that have been published since ' SKetches by Boz,' to which they are superior in the sense io
which artistically executed character portraits are superior to caricatures."— S(!. James's Gazette.

" No book of its class can be pointed out so admirably calculated to show another generation
the foibles and peculiarities of the men and women of our times." — Morning Post.

An Edition of " PEOPLE I HAVE MET " is published in small 8vo,
vritlx Frontispiece, price 3s. 6d.

VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &^ NEW EDITIONS. 1$
MR. GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA'S WORKS.

It was like your imperence to come smouchin' round here, looking after de white folks' waahin."

In One Volutne, demy %vo, bQO pages ^ price 125,, the Fifth Edition of -g^^

AMERICA REVISITED,

FROM THE BAY OF NEW YORK TO THE GULF OF MEXICO, & FROM LAKE MICHIGAf)
TO THE PACIFIC, including a sojourn among the mormons in salt lake city.

ILLUSTRATED WITH NEARLY 400 ENGRAVINGS.

"In 'America Revisited' Mr. Sala is seen at his very best; better even than in his Parie-
book, more evenly genial and gay, and with a fresher subject to handle." — World.

" Mr. Sala's good stories lie thick as plums in a pudding throughout this handsome work." —
Pall Mail Gazau.

i6 VIZETELLY &^ CO:S NEW BOOKS &> NEW EDITIONS.

MR. G. A. S ALA'S V^ORKS— continued.

In demy Zvo, handsomely printed on hand-made paper^ vnth tJie Illustrations on '
India paper mounted [only 250 copies printed), price 105. Qd.

UNDER THE SUN:

ESSAYS MAINLY WRITTEN IN HOT COUNTRIES.

A New Edition, containing several Additional Essays, with an Etched Portrait
«f the Author by Bocouet, and 12 full-page Engravings.

" There are nearly four hundred pages between the covers of this volume, which means that
they contain plenty of excellent reading." — St. James's Gazette.

Uniform with the above, with Frontispiece and other Page Engravings.

DUTCH PICTURES, and PICTURES DONE
WITH A QUILL.

The Graphic remarks : " "We have received a sumptuous new edition of Mr. G. A, Sala's well-
known 'Dutch Pictures.' It is printed on rough paper, and is enriched with many admirable
illustrations. "

" Mr. Sala's best work has in it something of Montaigne, a great deal of Charles Lamb — made
deeper and broader — and not a little of Lamb's model, the accomplished and quaint Sir Thomas
Brown. These ' Dutch Pictures ' and ' Pictures Done with a Quill ' should be placed alongside
Oliver Wendell Holmes's iuimit'ible budgets of friendly gossip and Thackeray's 'Roundabout
Papers.' They display to perfection the quick eye, good taste, and ready hand of the bom
essayist — they are never tiresome." — Daily Telegraph.

UNDER THE SUN, and DUTCH PICTURES AND PICTURES DONE
WITH A QUILL are also published in crown 8vo, price 5s. each.

Second Edition, in demy Svo, cloth gilt, price 12s. 6d.

A JOURNEY DUE SOUTH;

TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF SUNSHINE,

INCLUDINO

MARSEILLES, NICE, BASTIA, AJACCIO, GENOA, PISA, BOLOGNA,
VENICE, ROME, NAPLES, POMPEII, kc.

ILLUSTRATED WITH 16 FULL-PAGE ENGRAVINGS BY VARIOUS ARTISTS.

" In ' A Journey due South' Mr. Sala is in his brightest and cheeriest mood, ready with quip,
and jest, and anecdote, brimful of allusion ever happy and pat." — Saturday Review.

Eighth Edition, in croivn 8vo, 558 pages, attractively hound, price 35. &d.,
or gilt at the side and with gilt edges, is.

PARIS HERSELF AGAIN.

By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
WITH 350 CHARACTERISTIC ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRENCH ARTIST&

" On subjects like those in his present work, Mr. Sala is at his best." — The Times.

" This book is one of the most readable that has appeared for many a day. Few Englishmen
know so much of old and modem Paiis as Mr. Sala." — Truth.

'"Paris Herself Agaia' is infinitely more amusing than most novels. Thwe s no style so
chatty and so unwearying as that of which Mr. Sala is a maater." — The World.

A BUCK OF THE KEGENCY : /m/i ''DUTCH FICTURES."

" Mr. Sala's best work has in it something of Montaipne, a great deal of Charles Lamb — made
deeper and broader— and not a little I'f Lamb's m'del, tlie accomplished and quaint Sir Thoojas
Brown. These ' Dutch Pictures' and ' Pictures Done With a Quill' bhould be placed aloj^gside
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Papers.' They display to perfection the quick eye, good taste, and ready hand of the uoitj
essayist — they are never tiresomt;," -Daily Telegrapu.

c

I

1 8 VIZETELLY &- CO.'S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS.
VIZETELLY'S ONE-VOLUME NOVELS.

CMEAPER ISSUE.

" The idea of publishing cheap one-volume novels is a good one, and we wish the series e\(r3
success." — Saturday Review.

2s. 6d. each.

FIFTH EDITION.

THE IRONMASTER; OR, LOVE AND PRIDE,

By GEORGES OHNET.

TRANSLATED WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT FROM THE 146th FRENCH EDITION.

" This work, the greatest literary success in any language of recent times, has already
jrielded its author upwards of £12,000."

THIRD EDITION.

NUMA ROUMESTAN; OR, JOY ABROAD AND

GRIEF AT HOME.

By ALPHONSE DAUDET.

TRANSLATED BY Mrs. J. G. LAYARD.

*' * Numa Roumestan ' is a masterpiece ; it is really a perfect work ; it has no fault, no weak-
ness. It is a compact and harmonious whole. " — Mr. Henry James.

SECOND EDITION.

THE CORSARS; OR, LOVE AND LUCRE.

By JOHN HILL, Author of "The AVaters of Marah," "Sally/' &c.

" It is indubitable that Mr. Hill has produced a strong and lively novel, full of story, cha^
raeter, situations, murder, gold-mines, excursions, and alarms. The book is so rich in promisf
that we hope to receive some day from Mr. Hill a romance which will win every vote."-^
Satwday Review.

The Book that made M. Ohnet's reputation, and was crowned by the French Academy.

SECOND EDITION.

PRINCE SERGE PANINE.

By GEORGES OHNET. Author of "The Ironmaster."

TRANSLATED, WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT, FROM THE 110th FRENCH EDITION.

" This excellent version is sure to meet with large success on our side of the Channel." — Londui
Figa ro .

BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN.

By INA L. CASSILIS, Author of "Society's Queen," &c.

" An ingenious plot, cleverly handled." — Athenceum.
" The interest begins with the first page, and is ably sustained to the conclusion." — Edinburg)
Courant. ' • •

ROLAND; OR THE EXPIATION OF A SIN

By ARY ECILAW.

" A novel entitled 'Roland 'is creating an immense sensation in Paris. The first, second
and thi^d editions were swept away in as many days. The work is charmingly written,'' — Th
World.

VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 19

VIZETELLY'S ONE-VOLUME HOMEi^S— continued.
3s. 6d. each.

EIGHTH EDITION, CABEFULLY REVISED, AND WITH A SPECIAL PREFACE.

A MUMMER'S WIFE, a Realistic Novel.

By GEORGE MOORE, Author of "A Modern Lover."

" A striking book, different in tone from ciirrent English fiction. The woman's character is
a very powerful study." — At/iencmm.

"A Mummer's Wife, in virtue of its vividness of presentation and real literary skill, may be
ref^arded as a representative ^example of the work of a literary school that has of late years
attracted to itself a good deal of notoriety." — Spectator.

•' ' A Jlummer's Wife ' holds at present a unique position among English novels. It is a
•conspicuous success of its kind." — Graphic.

THIRD EDITION.

COUNTESS SARAH.

By GEORGES OHNET, Author of "The Ironmaster."

TRANSLATED, WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT, FROM THE llSxii FRENCH EDITION.

"The book contains some very powerful situations and first-rate character studies." —
Whitehall R*vieio.

" To an interesting plot is added a number of strongly-marked and cleverly drawn characters."
—Society.

THIRD EDITION.

MR. BUTLER'S WARD.

By MABEL ROBINSOX.

" A charming book, poetically conceived, and worked out with tenderness and ini^ight." —
Atliencenm

" The heroine is a v^ry happy conception, a beautiful creation whose affecting history is
treated with much delicacy, sj-miDatiij', and command of all that is touching." — IHasirated News.

" All the characters are new to fiction, and the author is to be congratulated on having made

«o full and original a haul out of the supposed to be exhausted ^vaters of modern society "

— G^ra^hie.

THE THREATENING EYE.

By E. F. KXIGHT, Author of "A Cruise in the Falcon."

"There is a good deal of power about this romance." — Graphic.

*' Full of extraordinary power and originality. The story is one of qviite exceptional force and
"impressiveness."— MaMc/iester Examiner.

THE FORKED TONGUE.

By R. LANGSTAFF DE HAVILLAND, M.A., Author of "Enslaved," &c.

"In many respects the story is a remarkable one. Its men and women are drawn with power
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IN PERIL OF HIS LIFE.

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LECOQ THE DETECTIVE. Two Vols.

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THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL

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DOSSIER NO. 113.

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THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES.

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THE MATAPAN AFFAIR. - A FIGHT FOR A FORTUNE.
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3.-LEC0a, THE DETECTIVE. 4. -THE SLAVES OF PARIS.

5.— IN PERIL OF HIS LIFE, AND INTRIGUES OF A POISONER.

6.— DOSSIER NO. 113, AND THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BA-
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8. -THE OLD AGE OF LECOa, THE DETECTIVE.

9.-THE CATASTROPHE. lO.-THE DAY OF RECKONING.

11.— THE SEVERED HAND, AND IN THE SERPENTS' COILS.
12. BERTHA'S SECRET, AND WHO DIED LAST ?

13.-THE CRIME OF THE OPERA HOUSE. 17.-THE CORAL PIN.
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15.-THE GOLDEN PIG. 18. -HIS GREAT REVENGE.

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FROMONT THE. YOUNGER & RISLER THE ELDER. By

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A NEW LEASE OF LIFE, & SAVING A DAUGHTER'S

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THE LOW-BORN LOVER'S REVENGE. By V. Cherbuliez.

" ' The Low-bom Lover's Revenge ' is one of M. Cherbuliezs many exquisitely written
productions. The studies of human nature under various influences, especially in the
cises of the unhappy heroine and her low-bom lover, are wonderfully effective," — lilui-
t rated Ijjudon Xeu-:<.

THE NOTARY'S NOSE, AND OTHER AMUSING STORIES.

By E. About.

" Crisp and bright, full of movement and interest." — Brighton Bcrcdd.

DOCTOR CLAUDE; OR,^OVE RENDERED DESPERATE.

By H. Malot. Two vols.

" We have to appeal to our very first flight of novelists to find anything so artistic in
English romance as these books," — Dublin F.VLning ^[aiL

THE THREE RED KNIGHTS; OR, THE BROTHERS'

VENGEANCE. By P. F^val.

" The one thing that strikes us in these stories is the marvellous dramatic skiU of the
writers." — SJi'^ffield Indejiendcnt. ^

Bi-adbury, Agnew, & Co., [Printers, WTiitefriari.

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